In The Night
by CrysWimmer
Summary: Complete! My answer to the GSR question about what should have happened following the season 4 cliffhanger… mild fluff warning, but then I happen to believe in happy endings. If I wanted angst, I’d look at my own life!
1. Chapter 1

In the Night

Romance: Sara/Grissom

Spoilers: everything through the end of Season 4

Chapter 1 

Gil Grissom gently wrapped his hand around Sara's and gave a squeeze. For less than a moment, he wasn't sure what to do, and then he realized that there had never been any question.

He'd received the call almost half an hour ago, telling him that Sara had been pulled over for an illegal right turn and had been checked for DUI due to the smell of alcohol on her breath. While she had blown slightly over the limit, departmental courtesy had earned her a call to her supervisor rather than a night in jail followed by a trip to court. As her supervisor, it was his job to do something about the situation.

And that was why it had taken half an hour for him to make it to the Station half way across the city of Las Vegas.

His first instinct had been panic; had she been okay. The last thing that anyone wanted to hear was the introduction of a Police Chief followed by the question of whether or not someone worked for him. Gil had seen too many of those calls made, although he'd not been forced to make them himself. He knew what he must have looked like. He had been with more than one officer when a door was knocked on in the middle of the night and a groggy parent answered to find a uniformed officer there. It was never good news; usually the crying started before the officer spoke a word.

Now Gil knew why. Panic. Ironically, it occurred to him that he never had admitted that he was her supervisor, at least not directly. At least, not on the phone. He had been more together after a mind-clearing drive around the outskirts of the city, which had been the fastest route to her given the traffic that crowded city streets even at night in the busy city.

Even after four years, Gil had no clue what to do with a leadership position. He wasn't good with people; never had been. He didn't know if he should go in and bawl her out, or yank her out to his Tahoe before he started yelling. He knew that the yelling had to happen at some point. Sara was to damned good to risk her career over a couple of drinks. No, he hadn't recommended her for promotion, but it had been that Nick was more qualified than she – not that she hadn't been qualified in her own right. There was a fine distinction. It wasn't always easy to make the supervisor's decisions; it wasn't easy to make one when the Officer had called.

And then he had seen her. Gil hadn't seen Sara looking so small and lost since more than a year before, when she'd been blown into a glass wall by an explosion. Then, he'd been worried for her health; she'd looked like she'd been in shock, aside from having a nasty cut on her hand. Then, he'd had the paramedics take her away. This time he didn't have that escape. She was all his, and he just hoped that he didn't screw up too badly.

Sitting down beside her, Gil had realized that there had never been a choice after all. He had taken her hand in his, and he knew that he would have to be a friend first, and a supervisor in the morning. She had the same look of fear and shock that she'd carried after the explosion, only it was overlaid with guilt as well.

"C'mon," he said gently. "I'll take you home."

She hadn't argued. That alone had worried him. Sara Sidle would argue with the devil about the heat in hell given ample opportunity. She didn't argue now though, nor offer explanations. She simply let him hold her hand, picked up her purse, and stood up to follow him. He kept his hand on hers as they passed through the corridors of the Police Station; he told himself it was to be sure she remained upright. Then he wondered why he even bothered lying to himself.

Once he had her in the Tahoe, seatbelt firmly secured and himself sitting beside her, he decided that the talk would have to wait. She hadn't said a word since he'd arrived, either in thanks or in self-defense. She wasn't ready to have any type of conversation. The Sara he knew was rarely, if ever, silent.

He took the same circular path back around the city that he'd used to get to the Station, and for the same reason. Half-way through the drive – perhaps fifteen minutes after he'd picked her up – she spoke for the first time.

"Pull over," she said urgently.

He snapped his head over to look at her, but gleaned little information from her profile beyond a stressed look.

"Why?"

"Because if you don't I'm going to puke all over your car," she ground out. It was then that he realized the careful posture, the trained breathing in through her nose and out through her teeth that they often used to steady themselves after a particularly gory experience.

He pulled over, turned off the vehicle, and set the parking brake.

No sooner had he stopped the vehicle than she was struggling with the door. He reached across her with his left arm to shove the door open and release her seatbelt for her, and then he kept that arm around her so that she didn't fall from the vehicle. He used his right hand to pull her hair back from her face while she emptied her stomach onto the hard-packed Nevada earth.

It took more than a few minutes for the vomiting to subside, and even when it did he kept his arm around her for support. He did release her hair though, and thankful for the bucket seats he reached between them to reach for the kit he always carried with him. He tugged it towards him, and then reached for the gym bag next to it. This was a secondary "kit" of sorts that he'd learned to carry with him as well. It contained a change of clothes, to include socks and shoes, a few energy bars, and the box he sought. He grabbed it, popped the blue lid with the touch of a button, and pulled out an unscented baby-wipe. Perhaps it wasn't standard police issue, but it was damned handy for cleaning up after a messy crime scene.

He wiped her face, making sure he got the majority of the mess off her, before grabbing a second wipe to run over her neck beneath her hair where a cold sweat had collected. He left that wipe in place, hoping it was cool enough to do some good, and fumbled for the gym bag again. After more than a little digging, he found the bottle of water that he'd been seeking, and after making sure that she was now leaning against her seat rather than out the door, he released her long enough to open it and hand it to her.

"Rinse," he told her simply. "I have some sports drink for when you feel up to drinking. You'll need the electrolytes."

She didn't bother to nod, but simply followed his directions compliantly, taking a sip, swishing it around, and leaning over to spit it onto the ground outside the Tahoe.

"Better?" he asked as she handed the bottle back to him.

She nodded, but she didn't speak. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady once more.

"Are you ready to start moving again?" he asked.

Again, she nodded, but didn't move. He reached over her again, having to lean against her heavily to reach the handle of the door, and pulled it closed. He locked the door out of habit rather than safety. Then he reached for her seat belt and tugged it loosely around her, snapping it into place but leaving about an inch of give between the material and her lap. He'd been sick before – although he doubted any of his CSI's would believe him that human – and he knew that pressure against her abdomen was the last thing she needed.

This time when he turned the ignition, he also flipped on the vents to full, making sure that the fan sent a generous portion of cool air in Sara's direction. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten how easily an intoxicated person could become ill; Heaven knew he'd been the designated pickup driver on enough occasions that it should have been habit. But it had been a lot of years since college, and a man couldn't remember everything.

The rest of the drive seemed to be going uneventfully, right up until he took his exit off the highway.

"Where are we going?" she asked groggily. Apparently, Sara wasn't asleep after all.

"Townhouse," was his brief reply. He could have given reasons: it was closer; he was more familiar with the route; it was late. He didn't bother to quantify his decisions with an explanation of any kind. It was too hard to explain it to himself.

"Why?"

Tenacious; but then, that had always been one of his favorite things about her. "Because it's almost sunlight, and I'm tired. And because I don't want you sleeping alone. How many DBs have we processed because of asphyxia due to inebriation? I'll run you home before shift this evening."

"So, you're not afraid I'll pin a sexual harassment suit on you for dragging me to your home against my will?"

She didn't sound particularly amused, nor challenging. She asked it as a simple question, unemotional, much as she would at a crime scene.

"Not particularly," he admitted. Their relationship had been going through some bumps, but he thought the foundation was still solid. He certainly hoped it was, because he was going to have enough of a battle in the moments to come without having to treat her as a suspect. It was irrelevant that in a way – for the moment – she was.

She was silent again until they pulled into the driveway before the townhouse. It was as neat and tidy as his few home-bound hours could make it, but he could see that to an observant eye the weeds were getting a little out of hand and the flowers could use a little more water. He made a mental note to try to remember that, but was fairly certain it would get lost in the multitude of priorities that he held before gardening. Truthfully, he'd always been more interested in the insect life attracted by the greenery than the plants themselves. He parked the SUV, then walked around to open Sara's door and help her out. She wasn't wobbly, but then he wouldn't expect her to be. Given the rate at which alcohol degraded in the bloodstream, she was probably at half the legal limit by now. If only she had waited to drive home until now, the entire situation wouldn't be taking place.

He didn't touch her as he escorted her to his front door, but he did stay close when she walked up the few steps towards the door. He unlocked it, and wondered at her capitulation as she walked quietly into the main room. There, she just stood with her arms wrapped around herself as though holding herself together. He assumed that in a way she was. In addition, things were about to get worse.

"Would you like the couch or bed?" he asked. When her head snapped up at that, he clarified. "I don't mind either, so the choice is yours. The couch sleeps okay, but it'll take me a few minutes to get sheets and blankets together. The bed is ready, but the sheets there haven't been washed this week, and I don't have a spare set in that size."

He waited, then. Then next move was hers.

"Couch," she finally said, and he nodded his understanding. He gestured her towards the black leather furniture before leaving the room to grab the set of sheets he used when his mother came to visit. He usually took the couch then, so that his mom could have some privacy when he came and went during odd hours of the day or night. It wasn't as though the noise of his moving around would bother her, but she was extremely sensitive to light, and he respected that.

Once he had the sheets and a blanket under one arm, he took a deep breath and walked up to his own bedroom to grab his spare work kit. He kept it fully stocked, just in case he happened to be home during a midnight call prior to restocking the one he kept in the Tahoe. He hesitated for only a moment before grabbing the hard plastic handle and lifting the heavy weight of the silver, metal box. Sara wasn't going to like this. He didn't like it much either.

He returned to the main room to find her much in the same position he'd left her in. She was sitting as she had in the Police Station, with her hands between her knees and her head down, staring at nothing and looking like a lost child. He knew that she was waiting for the ball to drop, and he hated to do it to her.

"My mother always told me that I should never drink and drive," he told her almost conversationally. "And we had this rule: if I was ever out and had drank too much, or was with someone who had, I could call her and she'd come get me. No embarrassing questions, no yelling, and no long-term consequences. I wish I could promise you the same, but you aren't the one who called me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"If you weren't safe to drive, you could have picked up a phone…"

"And said what?" she asked as she put her head in her hands. "I just got finished celebrating with Nick because he was recommended for the promotion he didn't want, but I did? That I didn't want to go home alone to a silent house with no food in it, so it was easier to hit a bar on the way and eat there rather than by myself at a table in the middle of a restaurant where I felt like everyone was looking at me? That I just wanted to forget for a while, so I had a couple of beers, and then a couple more?"

"Any or all of those would have been sufficient," he said as he laid the linens on the counter and placed his kit at her feet.

"I guess my judgment was off," she admitted. "It's been a hell of a year."

"Yes, it has," he agreed as he reached sideways to open the kit to reveal his evidence collection supplies. Moving some of the more common items to the side, he reached for the sterile needle, Vacutainer syringe, and three blood collection tubes with various colored rubber seals."

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice finally losing its apathy and moving towards suspicion.

"Full tox screen, CBCs, and LFTs," he answered simply. "Right arm or left."

She simply looked at him. For once, she wasn't cooperative.

"Sara, I have two choices. The police department may not have booked you, but the call to me is on record. If I don't provide some action we could both lose our jobs. Standard procedure after a DUI is a tox screen, to be sure there's nothing else in you that might impair reflexes or judgment. The CBC is because I'm worried about you; you're too pale, and lately you've lost weight. I don't know if the reason is emotional or physical, but while I have the needle in place is a good time to find out."

"And the LFTs?" She knew very well what the Liver Function Tests would show.

"This may have been a one-shot event, Sara, and I really hope it was. But saying that I trust you won't prove anything in court. If any of this gets back to the station, they'll want hard evidence. I want it on record if this is just a fluke."

"And if it's not?" she asked.

"Then I need to know," he admitted. "Because you wouldn't be the first person to let this job push them into a bottle, and you're too good for that."

Sara took a deep breath and looked down at him, but he found that he couldn't meet her eyes. By demanding these tests, he was essentially telling her that he didn't trust her, on any counts, and while that was true to a certain extent – he just didn't know her lately – it was a long way from how he felt. He wanted the tests to protect her. He wanted the evidence to exonerate her from any doubts.

"Do what you have to," she muttered, extending her right arm to him.

Gil paused only a moment before applying a tourniquet and checking for a vein. Gratefully, he swabbed a nice, large vein with alcohol and inserted the syringe. By the time he had drawn the three tubes of blood, Sara had reached into his kit herself for a pad of gauze. He released the tourniquet, took the gauze to put pressure on the insertion point, and then removed the needle quickly. He didn't draw blood often, but it was something he was relatively good at. With any luck at all, she wouldn't even bruise. He labeled the tubes, slipped them into a bag, and tucked them into his kit. He would take them by the lab when he went in to work. It wasn't likely that Sara would have to endure an inquiry over this incident, but he'd learned to be cautious. He was protecting her as much as he was trying to confirm her honesty.

Sara had kept pressure on the gauze pad while he finished with his tasks, and had also withdrawn subtly. "I'm sorry," he told her.

"It's better than jail," she said quietly, but she didn't meet his eyes.

Gil closed his kit and returned it to its place, then went back to the cupboard in the hall to grab her a pillow. "Are you sure you don't want the bed?" he asked. "It really wouldn't bother me."

Sara got the oddest expression on her face as her head popped up and her eyes met his for just a moment, but she didn't speak. Instead, she shook her head and took the pillow. Then she turned and began making up her bed for the night, leaving him feeling shut out and – oddly – isolated. It seemed strange to him to feel like a stranger in his own home, so he told her good night, and then went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

Sara awoke with a throbbing headache and a good dose of absolute confusion. She had the absent thought that she was glad the headache wasn't worse, and gave a silent prayer that it was due to her being ill rather than becoming used to the alcohol and its after-effects.

That line of thinking brought her to the illness – in Grissom's SUV – and where she was currently lying.

Grissom.

Shit. She would have almost preferred to go to jail rather than have him see her as he had the night before. She decided that there was very little in life worse than making a fool of herself in front of a man she wanted only to impress, both professionally and personally. Last night she had accomplished neither. She was frankly disgusted with herself on many levels. She was also embarrassed.

Turning over on the couch, she lowered her feet to the floor and sat up cautiously. Thankfully the throb didn't increase. She looked around the large room, taking in its sparse and masculine feel. She hadn't really taken time to look around the night before, and the one time she'd been herein the past it had been more a matter of urgent planning than visiting. Now she took in the silence of the large room, the clear view of the kitchen, and the dark drapes pulled shut against the sunlight. If the lines of light were any indication, it was a bright day. A glance at her watch told her that it was nearly noon; she hadn't slept long at all. It had been nearly light when she'd gone to sleep.

Sara had no clue how long Grissom usually slept. She was known for going days without sleep, and even when she collapsed it was only for a couple of hours. In reality, that was the reason behind her alcohol consumption. Staying awake all day simply gave her too much time to think, and few of her thoughts had been pleasant. Books no longer held her interest, and going out seemed horribly lonely. She had found out nearly by accident that a drink or two would let her fall asleep a bit faster, stay asleep a bit longer. In truth, if she had slept the five hours that her watch indicated, she'd slept more than she had in the past week. Insomnia wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

She stretched out the kinks of sleeping on an unfamiliar couch, although it was – as Grissom had told her – fairly comfortable. Then she stood up and walked the short distance to the kitchen. The faint light was enough to see by, so she peeked into cupboards until she found a glass. She then filled it with water, drank it, and repeated the process. Alcohol caused dehydration, and that was what the hangover was all about. If she'd gone home as she had planned, she would have taken two aspirin and two glasses of water, and likely wouldn't have even felt anything this morning. She usually didn't.

"Good morning."

The voice nearly caused her to choke as she spun around sputtering. Grissom was there in jeans and a flannel shirt, looking more casual than she'd ever seen him. He stepped forward and patted her on the back until the coughing stopped; all she could think of was the warmth of his palm on her back. "You know that doesn't really do anything," she told him once she had stopped coughing and had stepped back away from him.

He gave a shrug. "It's what my mom always did; either that, or pull my arms over my head. I don't think that would really work either. At least, it doesn't have any type of an anatomical reasoning behind it."

"Most wives' tales don't," she agreed.

"And yet we still do the same things that we have for generations," he agreed.

She looked down at that, knowing that he would catch the faint blush she developed when he talked about previous generations. She didn't feel like explaining, and he was an observant man. Yes, people did do things for one generation after another, regardless of whether the ingrained habits were productive. Getting drunk was one of those things, and she had no doubt that she had received it from several generations of Sidles who had tried to find answers at the bottom of a bottle. Brass had once told her that there were more problems than answers there; this was her proof.

"Is it okay if I make some coffee, or will the smell make you sick?" he asked as he opened a cupboard and gestured to a small bag of coffee.

"Do whatever you want," she told him. "It's your house. In fact, I can call a cab and head home anytime you'd like."

He shook his head at that. Damn. It wasn't that she'd expected him to accept the offer, but she had hoped. "There's a discussion we have to get through," he told her. "It may as well be this morning."

"It's afternoon," she told him.

He looked over her with a typical expression, one corner of his mouth lifted in amusement and eyebrows raised. Normally she found the sign that he was amused to be a good thing, albeit rare. Now she just wanted this over and done.

"Can I get you some br…" he paused a brief moment, and then winked. "Lunch?"

She shook her head at that. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't much of anything except drained and empty and feeling like shit. Grissom had been right when he'd mentioned her weight the night before. Food didn't taste like anything to her, so she kept her diet to coffee and the occasional meal which she knew was supposed to taste good. It didn't; nothing did.

"You need to eat," he told her as he glanced back with concern. He'd already set up the coffee pot and was reaching for a breadbox. He took out a bag, removed a few slices of bread, and placed two in the toaster that was on the counter.

"I'm not hungry," she told him honestly.

He didn't answer, but merely shrugged. For some reason she didn't think he was giving in. She stood there until the coffee was ready. He poured her a cup without asking if she wanted it, adding a splash of milk from the refrigerator just as she would have. It didn't surprise her that he knew how she took it; he didn't miss much.

With the warm cup in her hands, she walked back into the living area and sat down on the couch. The sheets were still in place, and she had the absent thought that she should clean up after herself, but she didn't have the energy to move. Instead, she took a sip of the hot coffee and didn't bother to wince as she felt the burn to her lips and tongue. At least she was feeling something.

Moments later, Grissom joined her, placing a small plate of buttered toast on her lap. She looked up in surprise; she hadn't seen him coming. She hadn't been thinking at all, but rather sitting in some form of detachment that she was becoming more familiar with. It was like watching herself perform in a movie, she thought. When someone spoke to her, she was there. But when nobody was around to anchor her, she was just watching herself from a distance, feeling nothing.

Grissom sat in silence for a long moment, drinking his coffee, before he spoke. "What happened?" he finally asked.

"I had too much to drink," she said with a shrug. "My judgment was poor enough that I drove instead of calling a cab. That's it."

His head tilted sideways as he looked at her, but the expression in his eyes was not one of understanding. "Does it happen often?" he asked. "The drinking, not the driving."

"Usually I'm home," she told him. "Last night I'd gone out with Nick and Warrick, so I drank a little more than I normally would. I had maybe three beers," she told him honestly. "One with them, and then they headed out. Then I went to Libby's for some dinner. I had two more beers there, and didn't eat very much. Then I decided to just go home. I made it about half-way before I saw the blue lights, and you know the rest."

"Normally you're home," he repeated, and she had to wonder if it was because he was latching onto that one fact or if he was just addressing the situation chronologically. "Define what's normal."

"I don't sleep," she told him pointedly. "When I get off, I usually have a beer with breakfast to help me relax. I go to sleep faster that way, maybe get three hours instead of one or two. But, I'm not a drunk, Grissom. I don't drink on the job, I don't need to drink, and I don't drink when I get up in the evenings. Trust me, I know what an alcoholic looks like, and I'm nowhere close."

He just looked at her for a long moment, his silence saying more than any words could about his thoughts. He didn't believe her. He didn't trust her. He didn't care about her, and that was what hurt the most.

"Look, I know I screwed up, and I won't do it again. If you want to run daily urine checks, feel free. I'm done; I promise. I've never been drunk on a case, and I've never let it affect my work."

"I'm not worried about your work," he said softly. "You're one of the best CSIs that I've ever worked with. But I _am_ worried about you. The one thing you left out of that list was drinking alone, and apparently that's a fairly normal occurrence. It isn't far from that step to alcoholism."

"I know what an alcoholic looks like," she muttered, finally taking her gaze from the cooling coffee to meet his eyes. "I watched one kill himself a little more every day when I was growing up. My dad was the best person – and the best cop – I ever knew, until he'd had a drink or two. Then anyone was fair game. My mother was his favorite target, but I got my share, too. I was smart enough to learn to stay clear; my mom never was. And no one thought to wonder why a cop's wife always had a black eye or a broken arm." She noted that her hands were shaking, and she occupied them with bringing the coffee to her lips to take a sip. "He died at forty-nine of cirrhosis of the liver. My mom is in a convalescent hospital in 'Frisco with no clue who she is, much less who I am. They say it's Alzheimer's, but I know it's getting slammed in the head too many times. I never understood why she stayed." She looked down at her now empty cup. "So I know what alcoholism is, Griss. I'm not there, and I'm not going there."

"You know you're predisposed to it, though," he said softly. "Don't you think it's tempting fate to drink on a daily basis?"

She shrugged at that. "Lately, I don't really care."

"Why?"

Well, if they were getting things out into the open – hashing over her life both past and present - never mind that she had offered the information about her childhood – she decided that she'd throw it all in. "There's not a lot in my life to stand up and sing about," she told him. "I live alone. I eat alone. I go to movies alone, and to the store, and to work. I'm not advancing in my career; I have nobody in my life that cares one way or the other. I'm a magnet for losers, so I've learned to stay clear of men, except…" She stopped herself there. She wasn't going to be _that_ honest.

"You don't sing anymore," he said softly.

"What?"

He shrugged. "It just occurred to me that you don't sing at work anymore. You used to sing when you weren't thinking about it. I always knew you were really into a project because I'd hear you, and I'd know not to break your train of thought. I haven't heard you sing in… years."

"Like I said," she told him. "Nothing to sing about. Hell, Griss, even you don't want to get close to me and we've been friends for years."

His eyes closed for a moment. "That had… nothing to do with you."

"I know," she said on a sigh. "Your work is too important to sacrifice for a relationship. I get it."

"No, you don't," he told her. "My career is… a small part of why I keep to myself. To begin with, it's easier to function if there's certainty in my life. Relationships are… uncertain."

"At the very least," she agreed.

He set his cup down on the floor at his feet and rubbed his palms against his jeans. "I'm not very good with people."

"That's a crock," she told him bitterly. When he didn't speak, she looked sideways to see that he wore a shocked expression. "I've seen you with victims, and you do fine. You get along with Catherine without any problem, and Brass too. Warrick thinks you walk on water, and hell, you even talk to Nick."

"I… do better than I used to," he admitted. "It's an effort, though."

"Sorry to bother you," she remarked sarcastically.

He took a deep breath, then reached up to remove his glasses and rub his hand over his face. "I would rather work with evidence than with people," he admitted. "I like certainty, and people don't provide that. Relationships, whether friendships or something else, are complicated and unpredictable. And no, it isn't a risk that I want to take."

"The benefits out-weigh the risks," she told him simply.

"Sara…" He was quiet for a moment, and then finally spoke. "Do you have any idea why I didn't want to go to dinner with you?"

She lowered her head. "Because you're my boss," she told him.

"True enough," he allowed. "But that's only the surface. There's a lot about me that… you don't know. There's a lot that would affect any attempt I made to have a relationship, and my informed choice is to be alone."

"That's a cop-out," she said. "Everyone has things that nobody knows. Do you think I tell everyone that I grew up terrified of my own father?"

"No, I don't," he admitted. "And who you were as a child certainly affects who you are now. But I'm talking about… defects. I don't feel it would be fair to any woman to… get close to them."

"Why?" she asked. "I know you don't want… I just want to understand. If this is about me, than I need to know. Every man I've ever dated has cheated or bailed, and you won't even consider the possibility. That's not about fairness. And if there's a defect, I have to know what it is before I can fix it."

He shook his head, taking another breath before reaching over and wrapping his hand around hers the way he had the night before. She tried not to feel the warmth, the strength there, but it was like trying to ignore the sun. "I'm fifteen years older than you," he said gently. "You can't tell me that doesn't matter."

"It doesn't to me," she told him honestly.

"You know so little about me," he told her.

"So tell me," she said in desperation, frightened at how close to tears she was. Something in the warm hand around hers and the uncertain voice of the man beside her was tearing at her. She needed to understand in order to get her world back in order.

"I've been in two… relationships," he said. "Both women realized that my chosen career was not as exciting as it sounded. They were disgusted by it, confused by it. They had every right to leave, because when my phone would ring or my pager would go off, they were second. Nobody likes to come in second." She didn't have anything to say to that. "The saying is that it's better to have loved and lost, rather than to have never loved at all. And that statement was clearly coined by someone who had never… lost."

"Everyone gets their heart broken, Griss," she told him, wanting to turn his hand over in hers but resisting the urge. "It's part of being human. Even I know that. But… I don't even get that chance, most of the time."

"There are simply too many factors on the wrong side of the equation," he told her. "Yes, I'm your supervisor, which presents an ethical compromise that I'm not willing to make. I'm much older than you as well. I'm not talking about a year or two, or even ten. Fifteen years is nearly a generation, Sara."

"I didn't say the situation was perfect," she muttered. "I just… You are the only man I've ever known who didn't resent the fact that I have a brain. You're smart enough to challenge me, and you're not threatened by me. Yes, you're older than I am, but we both know that age and maturity have little to do with one another. None of it will wash, Griss."

He let go of her hand then and stood, taking a few steps away from her and keeping his back to her. "Do you ever want children, Sara?"

That took her by surprise. "What, you can't have kids? I was talking about dinner, not marriage and a family."

He turned and gave her a small smile at that. "Fifteen years," he emphasized. "But as far as I know I _could_ have children, if I were willing to."

"With what we see every day, I can't blame you for not wanting to bring a baby into this world. I don't… know if I want children. I don't want them now. My career is important to me, and I feel like what I do makes some kind of a difference, or at least I did. I don't know what I feel anymore. I don't even know if it matters anymore." She tucked her hands between her knees, trying to keep them warm. The chill that had engulfed her when he had stood was not abating. She felt as though the hammer was about to drop, and she wouldn't be able to get clear of it.

He watched her for a long moment, his glasses in his hand. Finally, when he spoke, it was the last words she would have expected. "Sara, what do you know about otosclerosis?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

He watched her as the word caused a clear spark of surprise in her expression, waiting for some kind of understanding. He hoped he wouldn't have to spell it all out for her; he wasn't sure if he could.

"Oto," she said, clearly thinking aloud. "That's ears. Sclerosis is a hardening of something or a disease of, right? So, that would be… hardening of the ears? Degeneration of the ears?"

"You have the gist of it," he said, glad that she was quick at putting things together. "It's a progressive disorder – genetic – that causes tissue to grow in the ears, and harden there, making it impossible for the mechanism of hearing to function correctly."

He watched as she turned it over in her mind, waiting for her reaction. "Your mother is deaf," she said softly. "I remember hearing you mention it once. That's how you learned sign language so well." When he merely nodded, she continued. "Did she have it? Otosclerosis, I mean."

"She does," he clarified. "It doesn't go away. There are surgeries that can remove some of the growth and extend the period during which a person with the disorder can hear, but the surgery doesn't stop the progression of the disease. It simply… postpones the loss of hearing, or minimizes it. If a person with otosclerosis lives long enough, they _will_ go deaf."

"And it's genetic. Even if it's recessive, one child in four would have it and two carry it."

"Yes."

She looked at him for a long moment. "Why do I feel like you're the one?" she asked.

"Because I am," he admitted. "I've already undergone one surgery to remove occluding tissue, and it's only a matter of time until my hearing begins to degrade again."

"So you weren't ignoring us," she said softly, as though thinking aloud. "It seemed like… you were in your own world for a while. Even Greg said that you acted like you were deaf half the time."

"Not half," he admitted. "My hearing varied, but I missed about forty percent of conversation. I took a couple of classes in speech reading, so between that and contextual clues I was able to work without it being an issue. When it became one, I had the surgery."

"How's your hearing now?" she asked.

He gave a shrug as though it didn't matter, when the absolute opposite was true. "I have a thirty decibel loss remaining, which is in the mildly hard of hearing category. I hear when something is being said, but I don't always understand what is being said if someone is behind me or facing away from me. Actually, about one in ten adults have a loss that's in that range or even greater, but hearing tests aren't something that are routine in office exams. Unless you're looking for it, hearing loss is easy to miss."

"And easy to hide?" she asked.

"It wasn't easy," he clarified with something less than a smile, remembering the times he had walked away from discussions in frustration and the fear that had accompanied the volume of a voice draining into nothing.

"You didn't have to hide it at all," she told him.

He cleared his throat, trying not to react to the emotion in her voice. This wasn't about him, not entirely. "So, there's professional ethics, an age gap, past experience, and a disability. Sara, it wasn't you. I wouldn't have been willing to become involved with anyone under those circumstances."

"Wouldn't have?" she asked, her voice tremulous.

"Nothing has changed," he said simply. "Aside from my immediate situation with hearing, my life is the same as it was a year ago. I said no then; I should say no now."

"Should?"

He moved back to the couch and sat down beside her once more. "I'm worried about you," he said carefully. "For all the reasons I mentioned. You _are_ thinner, and it would be too easy for your drinking to go from casual to habitual. You do your work like a robot, as though you don't feel anything. And yes, I know that I told you to gain some professional detachment, but…"

"So, you feel sorry for me," she said carefully.

"No." How could he feel sorry for someone so strong; how could she even think that. "I miss… Sara. And yes, I see you every day, but something has changed and I don't like the difference. When you came here, you were so full of life, and now… I feel like we've drained that out of you."

"We?"

"Me. The job. The city. I don't even know. I just know that you aren't… you. That worries me, because the Sara Sidle who came here is the one that I enjoyed watching, and listening to, and talking with. And maybe it's self-centered, but I feel like I have something to do with the change, and I don't like myself for it. Whether it was professional or personal, I've… changed you. I'm sorry."

She took a deep breath and looked away. He was grateful, because her scrutiny had been making him uncomfortable. "Maybe I just grew up," she offered.

"Which is exactly why I wanted to stay clear of you," he put in. "Sara, you're young and beautiful and vibrant. And as tempting as that is, I don't want to destroy what makes you… you."

"When I moved here, I was just so glad that someone wanted me, even if it was on a professional basis. I felt… needed. But the longer I've stayed, the less needed I am. I'm tired of it, Grissom. I'm tired of feeling like I don't belong here. I'm tired of feeling nothing. And I'm tired of hoping and wishing, and then beating my head against a brick wall."

"You are needed," he assured her.

"If I were to leave today, it wouldn't make a ripple in anyone's life," she said softly. "Greg would ease into my job, someone else could have my apartment, and whatever you say about missing me just doesn't fit. Hell, most days you don't even speak to me beyond passing out assignments. I just want… to make a difference. But I don't."

Reaching up carefully, he placed his hand at her cheek to feel soft skin. The way that she jumped showed him just how uncertain she was about him. He remembered the one time she'd reached out to touch him and he had reacted the same way. He had been furious at the time, and he knew well enough that the same adrenaline which fueled anger could be easily redirected into other emotions. He had jumped because he'd been tempted to give his anger just that outlet. She had given him a way out, though. He wondered if he should offer her the same. "You make a difference," he told her, keeping his hand at her cheek and running his thumb across her chin, staying well clear of her lips.

He felt her gently press her face against his hand, and for a moment enjoyed the sensation of cradling her cheek in his palm, and then he saw it. One tear, single and yet so clear that he couldn't mistake it, slid from her eye and down her cheek. He knew then that the tug-of-war he'd been playing with her was finished. "Sara…" he whispered, somewhere between a concession and a plea. He leaned forward though, and carefully brushed his lips against hers, giving her every opportunity in the world to back away. She didn't, but neither did she kiss him back. He hadn't expected her to.

But it did make him wonder if perhaps he _was_ too late. He knew what she _had_ wanted, but he had no clue what she wanted now. It had taken him so long to figure things out, to weigh the good and bad of it in his mind and heart, that the balance had changed along the way. He pulled back and watched her expression, seeing another tear stream down the other side of her face. And then he was lost. Yes, she was needed. He needed her. He just didn't know how to tell her – or show her – how much.

So he did the last thing in the world that he was comfortable with. Reaching out with one arm, he curled it around her and brought her body nearer to his, using the hand at her face to cradle her head against his shoulder. It was awkward, and he didn't know if it was his own discomfort with human contact or if it was just the position they were in. At the moment though, it didn't matter. He held her, and she cried, and he just closed his eyes and tried not to screw this up. He wasn't a people person. He didn't know what the limits were, or what she needed, or what was acceptable.

Truthfully, that had been as much a barrier to his previous relationships and his work. It wasn't that he hadn't been touched as a child – he had been, and often – but his mother had always had to keep a certain distance in order to be understood. One couldn't sign with their arms around someone. By necessity, he'd been kept at arm's length, and it had become a habit. He had learned to guard his personal space carefully, and now it was hard for him to change the rules. But he wanted to. He wanted to be comfortable with the things that everyone else seemed to take for granted. He wanted to be able to open up, both verbally and physically, to someone else. He just wanted… he wanted to fit in. After forty-eight years of being on the outside, he was tired of looking through the window, and he wanted to step through the door. He just didn't know where the key was. For some reason, he thought that Sara just might be holding it.

If she found anything awkward about their position, she wasn't commenting. Instead, she was bawling her heart out. It wasn't like the loud and obvious sobs that he'd seen when people broke down in the interrogation rooms, or even the more subtle crying that he'd seen on those occasions when he'd watched someone receive horrible news about a loved one. No, Sara was silently resting her forehead against his shoulder, held there by his hand. Her body was shaking, his shirt was soaked, and the only real sign that she was still crying were the broken breaths that she was taking periodically.

He never knew how long he held her. It was long enough that his back ached and her breathing returned to normal. It was long enough that he actually became rather comfortable having his hand on her face and her head on his shoulder, whatever protest his back was making. It was long enough that her body softened against his, relaxing somewhat. When she finally pulled back, he let her go with reluctance. Her face was red and her eyes puffy. She looked horrible. She looked beautiful. "Better?" he asked.

She shrugged one shoulder, sniffling loudly. He took the opportunity to stand and retrieve a box of Kleenex from the bathroom, returning to hand it to her. She mumbled what sounded like thanks, although he wasn't sure. He reached down and picked up the empty coffee cup she had set on the floor and the small plate of untouched toast.

"You really should eat," he told her almost absently. His mind was off in so many directions that he couldn't focus on what he was saying. But regardless of his common misunderstanding of common social cues, he could see by the embarrassment on Sara's face that she needed a moment to compose herself. He took the dishes into the kitchen, rinsed them in the sink, and then left them there. By the time he returned, her face had returned to a more normal color and she could open her eyes fully.

"Gee, if you felt sorry for me before, I must really look pathetic now," she muttered as she blew her nose softly once more.

"You look beautiful," he admitted, and then he wanted to hit himself. To him, it sounded like a line. It sounded… wrong. "I mean, for someone who's just…" He allowed himself to trail off before he made a bigger ass of himself than he already had.

"I get it," she said, and he was almost certain that she was smiling. It was subtle, and as much sarcasm as humor, but yes, it was a smile. He released a breath he hadn't been aware that he had been holding.

"Sara, you do make a difference. And I don't mean to the lab, or to the city. You make a difference to me." He thought a moment as he sat back down, this time with a little more space between them although his placement hadn't been a conscious choice. "And I… want you here. I need you here."

"Why?" She sounded near tears again.

"Why?" he asked himself aloud. "Because you keep me guessing," he said, trying to put feelings that he didn't even understand for himself into terms that she could comprehend. "I look forward to you – to talking with you, or batting ideas back and forth, or even listening to you arguing with Cat or Nick. Some days when I haven't had much sleep, it's a little easier to go to work because I know I'll see you there. I didn't even realize how much you affected me until you threatened to leave." He shook his head, a chill traveling down his spine at the memory. "I really didn't understand about the hamburger," he said with a self-depreciating smile. "I still don't."

"It wasn't the meat," she admitted. "It was that, as much as you say you liked having me around, you didn't pay any attention to me beyond the professional. If I mislabeled evidence you'd see it in a heartbeat, but when I just wanted you to… You never saw any of it. You didn't get it. I guess I shouldn't have taken it personally; you don't let anyone get close, do you?"

No, he didn't. When a person was close, they could cause damage. He had wanted his world to be safe. He knew that above and beyond everything else, Sara had within her the power to destroy him. He didn't like for anyone to have that much control over him. Still, he was beginning to realize that she held his heart whether he acknowledged it to her or not. He could only lie to himself for so long, and the time for deception was long past. Now, he watched her. When he hadn't given an answer, her head had dropped as though he had, and it had been negative. It occurred to him that most silent answers were taken that way, regardless of their intent.

"Sara, what did you want me to do?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Do?" she asked with another sniff.

"You said, you just wanted me to… You never finished the sentence."

"I wanted you to see past the CSI to the woman underneath," she admitted softly. "God, how corny does that sound. I guess I didn't realize what I was asking."

He thought about that, deciding that it made sense but not knowing what to do about it.

"You're the most observant man I've ever known," she said carefully. "You never miss anything. I've seen you come behind Catherine or me and find evidence that we'd passed right over. You can pick up a lie in a suspect without even trying. But, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't make you see me."

He reached over and touched his fingers to her chin, gently turning her to face towards him. "I saw," he admitted. "Sometimes I saw more than I wanted to. But I didn't know if I could…" He shook his head before continuing. "I know how to treat a CSI. I know what to say, and what not to, and what is acceptable or not. I know where the lines are. But with women – with friends – the lines aren't as clearly defined. There's no operating instruction to fall back on, and no safety net for when you mess up. I thought that as long as I kept you where I knew what to do with you, then I wouldn't hurt you."

"You had it backwards," she told him.

And then she did the unthinkable. Sara Sidle leaned forward and kissed him, carefully, on the lips. And somewhere in his confusion, and his fear, and even his embarrassment, he lost track of where what lines were supposed to be. Somehow, against his better judgment and despite what he'd said earlier in the day, he couldn't find any resistance to her. Somehow, he kissed her back.


	4. Chapter 4

My most sincere thanks for the abundant feedback! I had no idea that I would receive this many comments so quickly. Keep in mind that feedback feeds the writer, and seeing it makes me want to write more… not that I wouldn't anyway. For some reason, I have these two stuck in my head, and they just won't go away… Chapter 4 

She knew it was taking a chance, and she knew the position she was putting them both in, but Sara really didn't care. She had been half in love with this man for longer than she could remember, and had all but give up hope that he would ever return even a part of that affection. Now, with his lips against hers, she was in heaven. The kiss wasn't particularly special in and of itself. In fact, it was positively chaste compared to what she had encountered on most dates, but the sensation of warmth had spread almost instantly from her lips to her heart. It wasn't just that she was kissing him; he was kissing her, too.

All too soon, he pulled away. She had known it was far too good to be true, but at least she would go through life knowing that she had done everything – absolutely everything – that she could to get past this man's barriers. She was shocked when he brought his hand up to her neck, leaned forward once more, and kissed her on the forehead before resting his head against hers.

Once more, she had no clue what to do. He hadn't initially rejected the kiss - hell, he'd kissed her voluntarily just that day, if it could be called a kiss – but neither had he deepened it, nor reached for her, nor any of the other predictable reactions that she'd experienced in the past with men. And yet he was keeping her close, tenderly cradling her head in his hand. His fingers were threaded through her hair, the warmth of his forehead was against hers, and that didn't seem to be the reaction of a man who felt nothing. What she didn't know is what it all meant, or what he wanted, or what to do next.

For a change, she decided not to be the aggressor. Gil Grissom did things in his own way and his own time; she wasn't going to rush him on anything. He would tell her what he wanted when he was damned good and ready, and not a moment before. It frustrated the hell out of her, but it was pure fact, and one that it had taken her years to learn. This close to him, she couldn't even find it in herself to mind.

Did she love him? Absolutely. Somewhere in all the confusion, she had come to think of him more as a friend than a boss, and the love had come naturally from that friendship, however odd it seemed to be. Was she in love? Even she didn't know. She did know that he intrigued her as no other man ever had. He tested her mind and kept her thinking, and she valued his opinions because they were intelligent and well thought-out. She respected his work, and more so she respected his dedication to that work. He would never be a man to resent her own dedication when she got an early morning call, and he would understand the times she needed to vent about her job without thinking that she hated it. She loved his gentleness, however clumsy it often was. His heart was in the right place, even if he didn't seem to know it. She didn't know if she was in love with him, or infatuated, or what exactly she would define her feelings as. One thing she was certain of though was that she and Grissom had the potential to understand one another. The relationship might have a hell of a lot of roadblocks, but once removed the road itself was absolutely concrete.

She wasn't deluded. She knew that even if she could convince this man to try, every argument he had posed would indeed become a factor. She would probably have to transfer off the night shift so that she wasn't under his direct supervision, and that would put her under Eckley's jurisdiction. Yes, they would get some odd looks with the age difference, but not as many as he might think. Men were not opposed to younger women as a rule, so while he might be thought of as eccentric, he wouldn't necessarily be criticized. From her perspective, he was as handsome in his own way as any man she'd ever known, to include Nicky and his blond good looks. She preferred distinguished, and Grissom had that mastered. His hearing might indeed pose a problem. She certainly wouldn't stop caring about him because he couldn't hear, but communication between them was hard enough without the disability. She would have to learn to sign, and he would have to learn enough trust to tell her when he didn't understand. Those appeared to her to be the biggest obstacles. Neither his past nor hers had to be factors if they were living in the here and now. She only had to convince him of it.

She felt him release a breath on a shuddering sigh, and braced herself for his withdrawal. It was what he always did. He surprised her though by leaving his hand in place as he drew back to look at her. She caught the ghost of a smile on his face before he spoke.

"At least you didn't slap me," he told her.

"I kissed you," she reminded him. "And you let me."

The ghost became a true grin, one that lit up his eyes and set off a dimple that was visible despite the beard. "Yeah, you did," he said around the smile.

"I'm glad," she told him. "Even if you'd been upset, I had to know…"

"Know what?" he asked when she didn't complete her thought.

"How it would feel. I've thought about it long enough; I've wondered about it, and imagined it."

"Disappointed?" he asked, and she could swear the expression on his face was pure insecurity. Surely he couldn't still doubt her attraction to him.

"I don't know," she said with a devious grin, wanting to make him squirm just a little bit as a gentle revenge for what he'd done to her over the previous four years. When his face fell, she let him off the hook. "We could try it a couple dozen more times, and then I'll make a judgment."

She watched her words sink in. He shook his head and looked at her with what appeared to be wonder. "What can you see in an old man?" he asked, and then looked startled that he'd spoken. Perhaps he had just been thinking aloud.

"What I see," she said thoughtfully. "Well, first off there's your eyes. I don't think I've ever seen eyes as blue as yours. I also see a great sense of humor. You can find the humor in even the most horrible situation. And I see strength, too. You hold our lab together, keep everyone in line, and still find time to work in the field as much as any of us. You don't consider anything beneath you. You've never asked any of us to do something you were unwilling to do yourself. That kind of fairness is rare."

"You'll have me nominated for sainthood before your speech is over," he told her, but the pleased blush was clear.

She didn't let him distract her. "And you care about things. I know you've given me a dozen lectures on keeping my professional distance, but you care more than any of us. You may not show it, but I see it. I also see how you care about the team."

"You're a part of that team," he reminded her.

She shrugged. "I've seen you stand up for us, especially against Eckley."

"That's my job."

She shook her head, her face still perilously close to his. "Above and beyond, Grissom."

He reached up with his free hand and gently stroked the backs of his fingers across her cheek. He didn't kiss her, but she saw something in his eyes that she liked, something she wanted to see more of.

"So, that's what I see in you. Now, can you see anything in a knobby-kneed kid to peak your interest?" With the question out there, she understood his previous insecurity. There was nothing like asking for someone else's opinion of you; especially someone who's opinion you truly valued.

"I see life," he told her softly. "I… love my work. We speak for those who can't speak for themselves, and we give closure to families, justice to criminals. But every day I see someone or something horrible. I see what man can do to his fellow man, and sometimes I have to wonder if there's a point to it. For every criminal we put away – every case we solve – there are ten that we don't. Every day I go into work and I know that someone will have done something unspeakable to someone else. But then I see you, and there's this… reason to try to keep the city just a little safer. I see hope in you, and energy, and vitality. That's what I'm so afraid I'll damage."

"Grissom, I do the same job that you do. I see the same things, and I understand the frustration that goes with it. But we do it anyway. It's who we are."

"Gruesome Grissom," he said softly.

She shook her head. "I prefer the "Bugman". At least it sounds better."

He leaned forward and kissed her again, just as softly as before, and all too soon he pulled away. Next, he glanced at his wrist and frowned. "We have shift in a little over two hours," he told her. "I really need to get you home."

She nodded reluctantly. She was afraid to leave, afraid to risk this new closeness that she'd found with him. Their relationship had always balanced on a fragile line, and she was terrified that any absence at all would destroy it. She was afraid she would wake up, and like the thousand times before this would just be a dream.

"You know, if you go ahead and get ready for work, and you don't mind, then we could run by my place on the way to work. I can feed you dinner while I get a shower and change of clothes." She held her breath as she waited for his answer.

He didn't rush. In fact, the wait became so long and the silence so heavy that she became worried that she'd overstepped once more. "I… I think I'd like that," he finally stammered. She could see in his expression – in the way he couldn't meet her eyes – that he was as unsure of his answer as she had been. "It won't take me long to get ready."

He brushed his fingers across her cheek once more, and then moved away with a reluctance so obvious that it loosened something inside of her. When he had left the room, she finally allowed herself to take a deep breath and she stood to clean up after herself. She had no clue where his hamper might be, so she folded the sheets as neatly as she could and laid them on the coffee table atop the pillow. Then she started straightening magazines on surfaces, stacking books, and generally moving about to relieve some of her nervous energy.

Sara closed her eyes tightly against involuntary visions as she heard the shower start. The last thing she needed to be doing was lusting after him, although the thought of anything physical was appealing. She hadn't realized until that morning – until he'd taken her hand in the police station – just how long it had been since she had touched someone or been touched by them. Truthfully, she had received more physical contact in this one day than in the two weeks prior, even with Warrick and Greg smacking her on the back or punching her in the arm, and Nick's occasional hugs.

The water stopped in record time, and she had to smile. Either he'd forgotten something, or he took the quickest and most no-nonsense showers that she'd ever known. When she didn't hear the water start up again, she smiled thinking that it must be the latter. That, she thought hopefully, or he was as anxious to be back with her as she was for him to return. Not likely, but a girl could hope.

Only a few moments later he walked from his room wearing clean clothes, socks, and carrying his shoes. He smiled at her as he sat down on the brown couch to pull on his shoes. "You didn't have to clean up," he told her. "You're a guest."

She shrugged her shoulder and watched him as he finished with his shoes and then looked up at her. "Ready," he told her with another glance at his watch. "If we hurry, we might have time to run by the police station and pick up your car before work."

She nodded at that. "It would cause… fewer questions," she admitted. "There are going to be enough with the blood tests."

He looked at her for a moment and appeared to be considering before he spoke. "I can have those run through district," he offered. "It would keep it out of the labs, but it would formally put it on record. The choice is yours. If you don't want Greg and the rest to know…"

She shook her head as she stood. "I'd rather it stay within the lab," she admitted. "With the team, it's embarrassing. If it goes formal, it could affect my career." She paused a moment as she watched him stand and face her. "Or yours," she added.

"I haven't done anything wrong, Sara," he told her gently. "You haven't either. We both know that blood tests carry more weight than breathalyzers in court, and by the time I drew you the levels had to be within legal limits. The only questions will be why we ran the tests, and that will stay in your personnel file, in my office. So long as there's no reason to pull your file in the next two years – no reviews or conduct hearings – then no one will see it except for me."

She let out a breath as she nodded her understanding. He was actually being very light on her as compared to most supervisors. If she'd been under Eckley, she would have spent the day in a holding cell just for him to make a point. He wouldn't have accepted a professional courtesy; he would have used it as an opportunity to nail her. Frankly, she was surprised that Grissom was treating this as lightly as he was. He was known for his uncompromising judgment. Hell, he didn't even cut Catherine any slack when it came to discipline, and she was probably his closest friend. Granted, Cath had pulled some stupid stunts in recent months, but any one of them was understandable. It was only the whole picture that looked bad. Sara had to wonder if that was what was happening with her, if this was just her first offense so he wasn't pressing it. She was too grateful to ask.

They were quiet as they walked to his Tahoe and he unlocked the door to let her in. She smiled at that sign of chivalry. Gil Grissom was old-school in a lot of ways, and while she might be a modern and relatively independent woman she could definitely appreciate good manners. She had certainly dealt with enough men in the past who didn't have them.

It didn't surprise her that he knew the way to her apartment. He might never have been there, but the address was common knowledge to the team. Oddly enough, Grissom was probably the only one who hadn't been to her place either for an errand, or a movie, or just to carpool. The guys had come over for Superbowl Sunday that year and had had a blast. She had cleaned up potato chips and beer stains for a week, but it had been worth it. The only thing that had been wrong with the day had been Grissom's absence. Knowing what she did now about his hearing, that absence made a lot more sense. A crowded room with everyone talking at once and cheering over the volume of the television would have made him miserable. She wished she had known it then; at the time she had just been hurt. He'd come to Nick's house the year before, and she had taken it personally when he hadn't come to hers.

With the Tahoe parked in her carport, she jogged up the stairs just in front of him so that she could unlock the door. Unlike Grissom's wide-open townhouse with its comfortable clutter on every surface, her apartment was tidy. Granted, she had nearly as much room as he did, but the positioning of the breakfast bar made the room look smaller. One bookcase dominated the far wall, holding most of her books, although not the special ones. Her computer desk took over another wall, and was the only area of the room that held any loose papers. She was absurdly grateful that she no longer had take-out menus on her refrigerator and catalogs on her desk, although she couldn't have said why. She was also grateful that she'd thought to shop a few days before, and that eggs and bread had been on her list.

"How do you feel about egg salad?" she asked as she put her purse on the bar and turned to him. He was looking around the room with interest, and it took him a moment to meet her eyes. For a moment she thought he might not have heard her, but his next words proved that he had only been distracted.

"No hot dogs?" he asked her with a wink.

She rolled her eyes at that. "Dream on," she fired back. "Your other options are yogurt, salad, or…" She paused as she moved a couple of containers to the side. "Maybe an omelet," she offered as she spotted some cheese.

"The yogurt sounds good," he told her as he took a seat on one of the barstools.

"That's it?"

"Unless you've got some peanut butter," he said with a shrug.

"You want jelly with that?" she asked as she grabbed a container of strawberry yogurt and set it before him with a spoon and a bottle of water. They really didn't have time for coffee if they were going to pick up her car.

"No," he said simply. "Just a bowl or something." At her quizzical look he explained. "I don't think you want me eating it out of the jar."

She didn't want to know what the expression on her face was as she handed him what he had asked for, but she knew it couldn't have been good.

"Thanks," he told her, as though his meal choice were as common as a bologna sandwich and chips. As she watched him dip out a generous portion of peanut butter with the spoon to drop in the bowl, and then use that same spoon to take a bite of yogurt, she decided that for him it probably was. What could a woman expect from a man who raced cockroaches for fun? The meal had carbs and protein both, so it wasn't unhealthy. It was just… odd.

"I'll just be a minute," she told him as she headed to the back of the room towards her bedroom. He didn't answer, for which she was grateful; his mouth was full.

She took her shower quickly, then toweled off and dressed. She put on a minimum of makeup after brushing her teeth, but she didn't bother with drying her hair. In all, she was ready to go in less than twenty minutes, and she decided that was the best anyone could hope for. She returned to the living area to find him flipping through a book over by the shelves.

"Find something you like?" she asked.

"Lewis Carroll," he told her with a raised eyebrow. "_The Complete, Unabridged Works_. Who would have thought you were an _Alice in Wonderland_ fan."

"Actually, I prefer The _Hunting of the Snark_," she admitted. "I did a composition on it in college and for some reason it struck me. I guess it was something in the rhythm of it."

"Ah, but some are Boojums," he told her.

She couldn't help but laugh. He was even informed about fairly obscure pieces written nearly a century before. "That they are," she agreed. "But if you expect me to faint away, you can think again."

His head cocked sideways. "Faint? No. In fact, I don't think I've even seen you get sick, much less faint. You've been furious, yes, and sometimes too sympathetic for your own good, but nothing so cliché as fainting."

She grinned at that as she sat down on a chair to put on her shoes. She had dressed comfortably in black jeans and a light blue blouse, and she hoped that the running shoes wouldn't clash too badly. "I used to watch those newsreels of Elvis and the Beetles," she admitted. "And I laughed at those screaming women. I never figured out how anyone could pass out just from seeing somebody famous."

"You live in a different age," he told her.

"Thank goodness for that."

"On the other hand," he said thoughtfully, "Maybe it's just you. I actually remember seeing Elvis with my mother, and yes there was some fainting, but she never did. Maybe it has to do with strength rather than time."

"Why would your mother go to see a singer?" she asked. His mother had been deaf; it seemed counterproductive.

"She actually took me to quite a few concerts," he told her. "When music is loud enough, it can be… felt. She loved music growing up, and that never really changed. It was probably what she missed most when she lost her hearing. And I think she also wanted me to have as normal a childhood as possible. Back in the fifties and early sixties, single parent families weren't the norm, much less single parents who signed rather than speaking. She tried to keep me from feeling different from the other kids."

"Did you?" she asked, running a comb through her hair again. "Feel different, I mean."

He smiled gently. "I didn't… feel. I had my nose in a book more often than not, or I was on my hands and knees looking for an insect. I don't think I ever looked up long enough to see if anyone was laughing down at me." He shook his head as he stood up and walked over to where she was sitting, gazing down at her. "I imagine you were in one of the popular cliques at school. Cheerleader?"

"Um, no," she said with a blush. "I worked in high school. It didn't leave a lot of extra time for socializing."

He didn't comment on that. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Hell no. She wanted to stay here and talk to him for the next fifty years. She wanted to find out about his mother, and know what had happened to his father, and all that made Gil Grissom the puzzle that he was. The last place she wanted to go was to the impound lot to retrieve her car, but she knew that it had to be done.

Absently, she wondered if she would have to pay the fine that normally accompanied vehicle storage there, and then she decided that she'd do what she had to do. It was a little late to be worrying about consequences; she couldn't take back the night before. And yet, in a perverse way, she was almost glad that she'd been so stupid. It had given her time with Grissom, and it had given him a reason to see her as more than one of his CSIs. She couldn't regret the day, whatever the consequences of the night before.

"Ready," she told him.

Half an hour later, they were pulling into the parking lot for the police station. The drive had been pleasant, with casual conversation and friendly discussion. She decided that she could get used to having someone to talk to on the drive to work, and then squashed that thought. This might be a start, but she was realistic about Gil Grissom. He was opening up, yes, but he wasn't going to ask her to move in within the week. Even if he did, she realized, she couldn't do it. For once, she was invested enough in a relationship that she was willing to go slowly. She didn't want to take a chance on rushing things, or rushing him. He was worth the wait. After all, she'd already been waiting four years, and longer than that if she went back to her initial crush on him when she had first met him in San Francisco.

She was more than a little confused as they approached her car. Rather than being in the impound yard behind the police station, it was out front in an employee parking space. She looked over at Grissom as he stopped the Tahoe and handed her the keys that had been taken from her. "How…?"

"Professional courtesy," he said simply. "The Chief gave me your keys when I came to get you."

She was stunned. She had known that the rules had been bent for her, but she was only now realizing that some had been completely broken. She owed someone a great deal, and for more than the day she would treasure for the rest of her life. "I really need to thank them," she said softly.

"Thank them by not letting it happen again," he told her, and there was some censure in his voice. Then he continued in a more normal tone. "And be glad that there were two officers in the car. One brought you in, and the other brought your car. If it had been a single officer, they would have had to have towed it."

She was. Thanking him for the ride, and wanting to thank him for so much more but not knowing how, she slipped out of the Tahoe and closed the door behind her. She got into her car and adjusted the seat and mirrors from where they had been placed to accommodate the officer who had driven it there, and then she started the car. Grissom backed the Tahoe up slightly, but then he just watched and waited. Finally, she realized that he was waiting for her to pull out. She did so, circling through the parking lot in front of him.

Sara glanced up to her rear-view mirror and smiled. He was driving behind her, close but not tailgating. She knew that they were just going to the same location, but it didn't matter. She decided that she liked having Grissom behind her. A lot.


	5. Chapter 5

Once more, thank you for the incredible feedback. I'm really enjoying that others like my impressions of the characters. Truthfully, I'm not yet sure how far this story will go, or how it will end, so the feedback you provide really is shaping the story. As for me, I plan to just keep following these two around and peeking into their heads from time to time… Chapter 5 

Gil Grissom settled in at his desk and gave a sigh at the paperwork that awaited him. He wasn't able to prove it scientifically, but he was sure that someday he would find concrete evidence that reports multiplied asexually when left unattended. For every piece of evidence at every crime scene, there was a registered report. For every lab test ordered and expense incurred, there was a report. For every conclusion and request for consultation, there was a report. It had been bad enough as a CSI to do them, but now he had to do his own and sign off on the rest of his shift's as well. For every hour in the field, he spent three behind a desk, and it was exhausting just to think about. To make matters worse, his mind was not on his work, and that was a very rare occurrence. In fact, the last time he could remember having this level of distraction had been when he had been worrying about his own upcoming surgery. His mind was quite simply on all that had happened that day, and all that hadn't, and what the hell he should be doing about it.

He managed to get through part of it by the time assignments were passed down from the previous shift, and he thought he was ready to face the world, so to speak. He hadn't seen Sara since they'd arrived in the CSI parking lot. He had watched her park, seen her enter the building, but she hadn't waited for him. He thought that was probably a good thing, because he wasn't quite sure what he was ready to show in private, much less in public. His initial reaction was to change nothing; no one needed to know that he was now questioning decisions that he'd held sacred for four years. But he was terrified that if he did it – if he withdrew from Sara again, even at work – he would hurt her. He had hurt her enough in the past, and the thought of doing more damage was unacceptable.

And yet, he couldn't exactly walk in and throw his arms around her in the break room, either. Well, it wasn't as though that were his style in the first place, but it was a tempting thought. She had felt so warm when he'd held her against him, and it hadn't been until then that he'd realized just how cold his world had become.

It hadn't always been that way. As a teen he might not have had many social skills, but as an adult he had learned them. It had been a great effort, but he had managed it. Years before, he had been an almost normal person, if a little eccentric. But the hearing loss had changed him, and not for the better. In not hearing what was said around him, he had often offended others without intending to be rude. In trying to keep his handicap a secret, he had deliberately been brief with people. And with the fear that they would pity him, he had backed away from even those who might have understood. While he might have joked with his team a few years back, or flirt in complete safety with Catherine, or even play practical jokes on Nick… he had stopped. He had let the seriousness and the fear pull him from those whom he should have been moving closer to, and by the time he had realized the mistake he had developed habits that were hard to break. He had moved back into the shell that had protected him as a child, and it was hard to come out.

He had lied to Sara. He _had _noticed that he was different as a child. But his nature had been to ignore the snide remarks about his "stupid" mother, back when speechless had been labeled as "dumb". She had been deaf, yes, but she was probably the most intelligent woman he had ever met. If she'd had half the advantages that Sara had – college, training, experience – his mother would have given the young brunette a run for her money in the brilliance category. But his mom had lived in a time when single parents were frowned on and the disabled were considered inferior. Ironically, she had supported them by working in a library shelving books and assisting others in finding what they needed. She was never a librarian – never had the schooling for it – but she had done the job, and had done it without the benefit of words to communicate with. It was one reason that Gil loved books as he did; in the library, everyone was quiet. In the library, his family wasn't so different.

But that hadn't made it easy. What had made it worse was that a few of the kids he had grown up with had known him from before his mother had gone completely deaf, before his father had walked away. Those were the ones who really pitied him, who looked at him with those sad eyes as though he were a street urchin rather than a well-loved and cared-for boy. He wasn't anyone's charity case. His mother had taught him pride as much as anything else. She had taught him to be who he was, and not what the world said he should be. If she could hold her head high – and she did – then he certainly could do no less. But whatever showed on the outside, he _did _notice that he was different.

So he had made an effort, and he had learned the skills to bridge the gap. He had learned to keep quiet when he knew the answer that nobody else did, and he had learned not to argue points even when he was right. He had learned to watch others and emulate their actions, even if he didn't entirely understand the reasons for the odd dances that they seemed to perform. It all had seemed so silly to him; there were so damned many unspoken rules, and he'd had no one to explain them to him. Unlike everyone else, he didn't seem to pick up on them naturally the way other people did. But he'd been smart enough to learn, clever enough to fit in until he'd found his place in a profession that encouraged rather than despised his exacting standards. Science had been his refuge.

And the time he'd taken to learn the emotions of others, to train himself to respond appropriately, had been invaluable to him as a CSI. He could gauge an expression because he'd been doing it since he was young. He could see a lie or feel the truth because he had been puzzling it out for so long. He had taught himself to actively look for clues about people, about what they really meant and wanted, and that self-training was what had made him good at his job.

But all those skills had become more than rusty as he'd retreated from the hearing world. He had thought it would be less painful to lose people if it were him making the choice, but he had been wrong. Pain was pain. And now, having hurt himself and most of those around him to one degree or another, he was having to mend fences and rebuild bridges while relearning the art of doing so. Thankfully some friendships had been strong enough that they had only bent under the strain he'd put on them, like the ones he held with Brass and Catherine. And yet over and above all that, he'd been trying to learn something he'd never really known. He'd been trying to learn to understand the mind of a woman, and it was just now occurring to him that perhaps the best way to understand a person was just to ask what the hell they meant. For someone so smart, he felt incredibly stupid for taking so long to come to such a basic conclusion.

So with that in mind, he decided that work would be "business as usual" for himself and Sara, at least until he could ask her what she thought about the matter. He would follow her lead, whatever it was.

That lead, it turned out, was surprisingly simple to follow. Sara had breezed in for the assignments just as she always had, griping about unwrapped meat sandwiches in the fridge and playfully teasing Nick about something. Grissom had divvied out the cases as equitably as possible, pairing Nick and Sara for a DB on the strip and Catherine and Warrick for a missing person report in a nearby housing unit. Thankfully, the lack of activity that night gave him the opportunity to stay and battle with the ever-growing mound of paperwork that occupied his desk.

It also gave him the freedom to go by the Lab and ask a personal favor of Greg. He explained the situation, requested that it not be hidden and yet not be announced, and waited for the results anxiously. The simple tests he'd ordered would take Greg only a few minutes, so he planned to drop back by the lab and get them later on shift. To his surprise, Greg brought them by in an uncharacteristically quiet manner, passed him the sheets of paper, and without a word went back to work.

He looked over the results with absolute trepidation. What could be in them that would have Greg so solemn? And yet he found nothing really out of the ordinary on her tests. Her blood alcohol had dropped to point oh-four, which was quite acceptable by any standard, and the rest of the results were normal or near that. He did note that she was slightly anemic, and made a mental note to mention it to her. And yet still this didn't surprise him; it was a common problem for vegetarians.

Reassured by the results, he filed them in his cabinet and went back to work. Finally he managed to get into a rhythm of sorts with the reports, and gradually the forms moved from the in-box to the out-box. By the time he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in that sure feeling he was being watched, he was nearly finished. Glancing up to see what had alerted his senses, he saw Sara standing in the doorway watching him. He took off his glasses and gestured her in and to a chair.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"It was a fairly straightforward case," she told him. "Homeless man was found dead by one of his friends. We processed the scene, but there were no signs of anything out of place. He was old, his health didn't appear to be good, and nobody in the area saw anything more than him laying down for a nap in an alleyway and not getting up. The abbreviated autopsy is pending, but I'm not expecting any surprises." She looked over his desk for a moment with surprise. "You've been busy."

"I hate paperwork," he grumbled. "But it only gets worse if I put it off."

She nodded at that, and then he watched as she took a breath, held it, and then let it out carefully before repeating the action. He sat quietly, knowing she was working herself up to something but having no idea what. "Shift is over in ten minutes," she told him.

He glanced at the clock, nodded, and gestured with a hand for her to continue.

"So, if you're not busy… I mean…" She took another breath, let it out, and then spoke quickly. "Would you like to get some breakfast?" she asked. "With me, I mean."

He watched her for a moment, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table so that his fingers came together in a triangle shape. He knew what that question had cost her. The last time she had asked, he had been less than polite in his refusal. Only now, thinking back, did he realize that there must have been just as much embarrassment and pain in her apparent anger as there had been actual irritation. She had put herself on the line, and he hadn't even realized it, much less responded to it. And yet now she was doing it again – asking him again – with the same risk that she had taken before. Only this time, she knew what his likely response would be, and she still asked. He wondered if he would ever have that type of emotional courage.

Lost in thought, he watched her expression gradually change from a hopeful nervousness to a disappointed embarrassment. It took him a moment, but finally he realized that he hadn't given her an answer. He had merely thought it, and had sat there. "Yes," he blurted out as she began to stand. "I mean, I'd like that."

The smile she gave him was gentle and almost shy, and he could see the relief in her expression. "I'll go change," she told him. "Do you want to meet here, or out front?"

"Here's fine," he said. "I have two more folders, and then I'm out of here."

She smiled as she left his office, and he sat there for a moment looking after her before grabbing a folder. But instead of managing to complete his work, he was interrupted once more by the sensation of being watched. Glancing up to the doorway, this time he saw another beautiful woman standing there, and yet he didn't feel his pulse accelerate or his heart skip a beat. "What do you need?" he asked her.

Catherine Willows smiled down at him. One of his oldest and dearest friends, she was one of the few people who had never bothered with pretense. It was one reason that she was so easy to be around; she hid nothing. If she was feeling it, you knew about it, and there was little doubt as to what she wanted at any given time. "Just getting ready to go," she told him as she placed another file folder in his in-box. "Wondered if you wanted to grab a bite to eat?"

He looked over at the thin folder and glanced back quizzically. "Finished already?"

"Teenage daughter," Catherine said with a tone of absolute boredom. "She spent the night with a boyfriend and didn't tell her parents. She came in this morning before we could finish with the questioning. I swear, if Lindsey ever pulls a stunt like that you're going to be investigating _me_ for murder."

He gave a quiet laugh, grateful that the missing teenager had met with no foul play. He was tired of seeing children butchered; knowing that a child was just being a child was actually refreshing. "She'll probably be grounded for life," he remarked.

Catherine nodded. "So, what do you say about breakfast? My treat!"

He had to smile at her. Either she was getting ready to pump him for information on something, or she was going to give him another lecture on letting people into his life. He loved her for it – really, he did – but he could only handle one woman at a time, and as dear as Catherine was to him, she was only a friend. "I can't this morning," he told her. "But I'll take a rain check."

Catherine gave him an exasperated sigh as she stepped into the office and reached into his in-box. "You have three folders left," she said in an irritated tone. "And I know you worked straight through. You probably haven't eaten anything since you got here."

In truth, he hadn't, but it had simply been because his mind had been elsewhere. "I'll go eat," he told her. "But… I have plans."

"Plans," she said sarcastically. "Right. What are you going to do? Grab the Deluxe Breakfast from McDonalds on your way home?"

"Actually," Sara said as she slipped in behind Catherine and took a seat in the chair while Catherine hovered at the desk, "I was thinking more along the lines of a Waffle House."

Gil almost laughed as he watched Catherine's eyes widen. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, as though she wanted to say something, and then she seemed to think better of it and she began backing toward the door. "Oh," she finally stammered. "Plans. I see. Well, um… have a good morning," she told him as she did an about face and headed out. Sara broke into a wide grin and a slight blush as Catherine made her hasty departure, and he laughed openly.

"You realize that the rumors will be flying by the time we come to work tonight," Sara told him with that same grin.

He looked at her a moment, his humor waning for a moment. "Is that a problem?" he asked. Had he misread things again? Wasn't this what she wanted? Wouldn't she have been more upset if he'd changed his plans with her just to prevent talk around the office?

Sara gave a careless shrug. "I'm going to get it from Warrick, but I think Nicky will be cool with it. Greg, I'm not so sure, but he's grown up a lot lately so I think he can handle it."

He smiled at her again, this time in relief. "Two minutes," he told her as he held up two fingers, and then he went to work furiously on the remaining folders. Thankfully they were thin and he'd already been familiar with their contents with the exception of Catherine's final case, so he hadn't exaggerated much about the speed of his completion.

"Finished," he told her as he tossed the last folder into the out-box.

"Great," she answered. "And, if you don't want waffles, that's fine. It was just an idea."

"I love waffles," he told her honestly. "Especially with a side of bacon."

She gave him a dirty look when he said that, but then she smiled. He escorted her out of the office with his hand unconsciously at the small of her back, flicking the light off as they left.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning – Love scene fast approaching… You'll note that I didn't say sex scene… this is mild, but I figure you should be warned. Also, you may need to know that this will be the last update until after Christmas… going to the inlaws, and no acceptable computer. Hopefully this will tide you over. Chapter 6 

The breakfast was the first of many. Spening time talking, eating, and just enjoying one another's company without the tensions of the previous months, Sara enjoyed learning about Grissom and part of what made him tick. Occasionally after eating he would invite her over for coffee, and sometimes she would do the same for him, but essentially their relationship stayed in a sort of limbo. He was opening up, but slowly. Sara's resolution to be patient – to give him time – started to grate on her nerves. If the man were to move any slower, he would go into reverse.

And yet she wouldn't take the chance of tipping the delicate balance that they had achieved. They had finally regained the comfortable friendship that she had so missed, and it was something she held more valuable than anything else. Even sex.

But that didn't make the situation physically comfortable all the time. She was attracted to Grissom, despite the few pounds he'd added and the fact that he was far older than she was. She knew that he was attracted to her as well because thankfully men tended to show their interest rather… obviously. She was glad that the message was coming from his body, in the occasional uncomfortable shift that drew her glance to his groin or the distinctive bulge that he took pains to hide, because he certainly wasn't letting her know in any other way.

They kissed, although it was nothing like the heavy necking sessions she'd experienced in high school or the more involved groping sessions that she had dealt with on dates. She found it ironic, in the most painful of ways, that she finally had found a man who she wanted to touch and have him touch her, and he was being so damned careful.

The irritating frustration lasted for a week, and then two, and then a month. They worked, caught breakfast together three or four times a week, and occasionally spent a night off together either at a movie, the museum, or a show. A couple of times she had talked him into watching a video and enjoying microwave popcorn just so they could have some privacy and he could have an opportunity to make some kind of move, but he didn't take it. The man was moving slowly, and she didn't know what to do about it.

In the past, when she had wanted a relationship to progress, she had become the aggressor. Almost invariably the men were either very turned on or very turned off. There was little middle ground when it came to that kind of thing. So Sara decided that if she wanted to be aggressive, it was going to have to be subtle. It should be more a matter of letting him know what she wanted rather than demanding anything from him. Unfortunately, taking hints wasn't Gil's strong point.

On a Friday morning nearly six weeks after their first day together, Sara finally reached frustration threshold. The frustration was as much mental as physical, but that was a problem as well. She hadn't had sex in over a year, and she hadn't made love in several. She needed… something, even if it was just a sign that someday the wait would be rewarded.

The morning was pretty average as a rule. They got off work, drove to his place, and he made her breakfast. Afterwards, they sat beside one another on the couch, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her back, as they watched the news. Neither of them liked the daytime programming, so after the news he slipped in a video. It was something old – black and white – and a little dry. It wasn't that she didn't like the movie, though. If she had watched it, she might have become quite involved in the mystery. But all she could think of was the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek and the strength of the arm behind her. She wanted more than to be casually held. She wanted… more.

Lifting her head slightly, she noted that he was fairly intent on the movie. A glance down told her that he wasn't as oblivious to her nearness as he appeared, so she decided to take a chance. After all, the worst he could do was tell her to stop, and at least then she would know that she had tried.

With one finger, she trailed a path around the shell of his ear, tickling slightly. He smiled and tugged her closer to him, but otherwise didn't react. She turned her head and replaced her finger with the tip of her tongue. She was gratified when that at least got her a gasp and closed eyes, and the tightening of his arm was significantly more definite. But he hadn't told her to stop, so she didn't. Moving her mouth down, she placed small kisses against his neck, following the trail of an artery to his collar.

His eyes were closed now, and his breathing a little unsteady, but he hadn't made any return moves. She honestly didn't know what to think. With a sigh, she laid her head back on his chest snuggled closely to him. His hand threaded into her hair, absently playing with the strands as he focused his attention back on the movie. Oh well, she decided. Bummer.

The rest of the movie went on without incident, either from him or from her. She dozed in and out in the warmth of his embrace, but she really didn't catch the movie itself. She did notice when the television turned off, the absence of noise sounding louder to her than a cannon.

"Hey," she said drowsily as she shifted a little in his arms. She had slid down slightly, her head resting lower on his chest than usual rather than up at his collar bone, but his arms were holding her there securely.

"I need to get you home," he told her. "You're too tired to sit up."

She felt a sting in the back of her throat. Did he really think that was all that was behind her actions? Fatigue? Sick of waiting and wondering, Sara did the only thing she could think of. Actions hadn't worked, and hinting hadn't worked. It was time for her last line of defense. It was time to talk about it.

"I could sit up," she told him as she slid lower and wrapped one arm around his body in a gentle hug. "But this feels better."

He smiled at that. "I could get used to this," he agreed.

"Griss?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you… think of me?" she asked.

"Huh?" Great. He was his usual, oblivious self.

"I mean, I know we're friends. I wouldn't trade that. And, sometimes I think there's more, but I'm never exactly sure. I mean, I want there to be more, but I don't want to mess this up by rushing you."

"More what?" he asked, confusion clear in his voice.

She gave a sigh. Shit. He was going to make her spell it out, and she could feel her cheeks reddening already. Sex was something she considered great to do, but talking about it was torture. "More touching," she finally said. "More kissing. More… everything."

He looked down at her as he brushed her hair back out of her eyes. "We touch," he told her honestly. "And we kiss."

"I know," she admitted. "And I don't want to… rush anything, but sometimes I feel like…" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Like what?"

Horny? Randy? Ready to jump his bones? Her mind toyed with the word "unsatisfied", but it wasn't exactly true. How could she put into words – delicately – the fact that she was so sexually frustrated that she wanted to scream. "Do you want me?" she finally asked, lifting her body up so that she could look him in the eye. The movement put her hand on his thigh for balance, and she could tell from the tension there that he wasn't immune to her. That was a good sign.

"Of course I do," he told her softly. "I love having you here."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't mean wanting me _here_," she clarified. "I mean to you want… do you ever want…" Damn, this was harder than she'd thought it was going to be. "Do you ever think about getting physically closer?"

His soft smile turned into a true grin. "I've got my arms around you," he said with a wink. "How close do you want me?"

And she couldn't do it. She couldn't find the words. Something told her that she should be angry, and in a way she was. At herself. She had known going in that this wouldn't be easy, and she had known that Gil tended to take his time with things, but it was getting to the point of being ridiculous. Finally, completely at a loss for what to do, she put one hand on each side of his face and kissed him.

She could feel his smile as he returned the kiss, but it was one of those kisses that left her just wanting more. Delicate and careful, he never used a lot of pressure. He barely opened his mouth. He kept his tongue to himself. Hell, half the time his kisses lasted only a moment before transferring to her cheek or her forehead, and she was tired of feeling like a little sister. She was tired of careful, and sick of delicate, so she pressed her lips against his and slid her tongue over his lower lip. If he wasn't going to take the initiative, than she was.

His body stiffened, but she didn't let up. She had started this, and she was going to see it through. She moved her tongue back across his lower lip in the opposite direction, and then curled it up to tickle the inside of his upper lip. That caused him to take in a quick breath, opening his mouth slightly, and then she was in.

She kept it gentle, the kind of kiss she had always wanted and had never managed to find with anyone else. She wasn't there to swap spit or battle with tongues, but rather to explore and enjoy the sensations. Too many men she had known had shoved their tongue down her throat without asking her opinion. She wanted the kiss to be an invitation, not a demand.

At first, he was still. He sat frozen, nothing moving, and only the security of his arms still around her gave her the courage to continue. She played some more, using the tip of her tongue to trail around the inside of his teeth, to gently stroke his tongue, and hopefully to encourage him to do the same. For the longest time he didn't – not that she was any judge of time at that moment – and then his grip on her shifted.

She thought he was letting her go, and feared that her gamble had cost her what closeness they had achieved. She didn't want any discomfort between them; she'd lived through enough years of it, and she was done. But then his hands settled in new locations, one around her back and the other under her knees, and he carefully pulled her up onto his lap so that the kiss was easier. They were face to face now, and his hands weren't the only things moving.

God, he was gentle, she thought as he moved the hand from her back up into her hair to hold her in place. Just as he did everything, step by step and in perfect order, he kissed her. To say he was thorough would have been an understatement. Methodical didn't quite cover it either. Meticulous. Yes, that was it. Gil Grissom was a meticulous kisser, leaving no spot untouched and no sensation unfelt. She felt him subtly take control of the kiss, leading her instead of being led, and she almost cried in her relief. He did want her. He did. She had the evidence hard beneath her lap and she was loving it. She was loving him, but then she always had.

If his previous kisses had been chaste and quick, this one was as far the opposite as she could imagine. It went on forever, gentle and easy and maintaining that delicacy that she had come to associate with him. And yet, for as long as he kissed her, it wasn't long enough. Eventually, they both had to breathe, and he pulled himself back from her. He finished the kiss with little pecks on her upper lip, her lower lip, and finally he rested his forehead against hers.

"Thank you," she said, her voice just over a whisper.

"For what?" he asked.

"Reassurance," she told him. "I was starting to wonder if you'd ever… if we'd… I mean…" Her voice trailed off as her cheeks heated. Yes, sex was easier to do than to talk about.

His laugh was as gentle as the kiss had been. "For a woman who has first hand experience regarding sex in airplanes, you're awfully shy about telling me what you want. If you needed assurance, you could have just asked."

"I didn't want to talk about kissing you," she said simply. "I wanted to kiss you. I guess I needed to know that you wanted to kiss me. God, I sound like a teenager!"

"No, you just sound… worried. Tell me what's bothering you."

She sighed at that. "I love having breakfast with you," she began. "I love to watch movies, and go out, and just be held when the news is on. But I'm not a kid, and… sometimes I want more. Most of the time I want more, but I don't want to pressure you."

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" he asked.

"Trust me, if you did anything I didn't approve of, you'd be the first to know."

He cocked his head sideways as he looked at her, considering. "If you won't tell me what you want," he asked, "How can I trust you to tell me what you don't want?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Trust me, I'd get my point across. Besides, I know you're not going to attack me. I just… sometimes I don't think I have any effect on you at all, and that bothers me."

"Why?"

She laughed, but it was a sad sound. "Because you effect the hell out of me," she admitted. "When I'm close to you, I want to touch." She brushed a hand over his chest, then trailed it up to his cheek to stroke the soft beard.

He covered her hand with his own, then removed it to place a kiss in the palm before holding it in his, threading his fingers through hers while he appeared to be lost in thought. "Three things," he finally said. "First, I don't take sex lightly. It's a beautiful act designed to create life, and to bring people as close as they can be. It's a huge step. I'm not saying that it's too big of a step, but it is a big one." He glanced at her, appearing to gauge her reaction. "Second, I've seen too many women forced into something they don't want, or aren't ready for. Testosterone is a powerful hormone, and when it kicks in, judgment is the first thing to go. I wouldn't be able to tell from body language or subtlety if you wanted to stop, so I need to know that you'll talk to me."

When he didn't continue, she prodded slightly. "And the third?"

He was silent a long while, and his eyes didn't meet hers when he spoke. "I'm not a young man," he finally said. "I don't have the body of a thirty year old, or even a forty year old. I weigh a little more than I should, I haven't been naked in front of a woman in longer than I can remember, and I really don't want to see you run screaming."

She smiled. Okay, he'd been methodical; she'd do the same. "First, I agree with you. Sex isn't something that should be taken lightly. I'll admit that in the past I might have seen it as… recreational, but that way of thinking shifts when you find yourself with someone you really care about. I really care about you. Second, I can't imagine you forcing me to do anything. You're the gentlest man I know, and if you stepped over any lines, I'd tell you straight out. I don't do S and M, I don't like pain, and if any other objections come to mind, I'll let you know. As I can't see you liking those things either, I'd say that we'll probably get along pretty well. And as for the last… I wish that you could see yourself the way I do. Lo…" She stopped herself, cursing her near slip. "Caring about someone means taking them for what they are, not what they aren't. If I wanted a perfect body, I would have chased Nicky. If I'd wanted someone young, I could have gone out with Greg. I… care about you for more than what's physical. But just because it wasn't a priority, that doesn't mean I'm ruling anything out. I'll be honest with you; I like sex. I think I'd like it even more with you, because the feelings are more than physical. You're in my mind, and my heart… and from there, being in my body isn't such a bad thought."

He gave her a soft smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sara, there's very little I wouldn't do for you," he told her. At least he was honest; he wouldn't do anything for her. "But truthfully, I'm not ready. I've had too many relationships go sour as soon as they became physical, and I need… time."

"That's a switch," she told him, finding some genuine amusement in the situation. "Usually it's guys who are pushing for more."

"Do you need more?" he asked.

She thought about that. "I need you," she admitted. "And I want more. But I can wait. I've gotten really good at waiting."

He kissed her on the forehead and held her tight for a minute. She could feel him shaking slightly, and she realized how hard this was for him. Not for the first time, she wondered what in the hell some monster in high heels had done to him to make him so shy of loving. It wasn't something she was ready to ask, but it was something she knew was eventually going to have to be addressed. But not tonight.

"Do you mind if I…" She trailed off then, thinking that she was definitely stepping over lines with what she had been going to ask.

"Mind if you what?" When she didn't answer, he added, "What do you want, Sara?"

"Can I spend the night?" she asked softly. "I'll take the couch," she added quickly. "I just… don't feel like driving home, and I…"

"Want to be close?" he asked.

She nodded, mortified that her insecurity had been so obvious.

"I'll go get you the sheets and a blanket," he said. "And I think I have some sweats you can wear. They'll be huge on you, but you can't sleep in that."

She glanced down at her attire. They'd come straight from work, and she was wearing nice slacks and a silk blouse. He was right; she'd look horrible if she slept in her clothes. "That might be a good idea," she admitted. "If you're sure it's not a problem," she added quickly. "I mean, I can drive home if you…"

He silenced her with a thumb over her lips as he cradled her cheek in his palm. "Maybe I want to keep you close, too," he offered carefully. "I'll go get those sweats."

As Sara watched him go, she released a sigh of relief. No, they hadn't gotten as far as she might have liked tonight, but they'd pointed themselves in that direction. It was a start. Hell, it was a damned fine start.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: My apologies for the wait for this chapter. Real life has a way of slowing down my writing, and this chapter wasn't the easiest to manage under any circumstances. I'm a big believer in realism, and I prefer it to the "fantasy" that most romances seem to fall into. Reality is romantic enough, given enough love and care. In any case, there is a love scene to follow (although it's one I don't think would disapprove of – it is NOT a sex scene). It's not particularly graphic, but you'll definitely get the general idea. I just wanted you to be warned. My sincere thanks to all who have taken the time to read and review. It's those little bits of encouragement that keep me writing, and you'll never know how much it means to me. With that said, on with the story... Chapter 7 

Gil looked down at the beautiful woman in his arms and wondered how in hell he had gotten to this point.

He supposed that it would be easier to pinpoint the exact moment if it hadn't happened so gradually. What had started with one night on his couch had somehow changed into more than the occasional sleepover. He had found that he liked having her there, and over a period of a few weeks she had even brought over enough things that she could get ready for work without going home first. He couldn't say that he minded it. She was comfortable to have around, even when she was driving him to distraction, and there was a certain satisfaction to seeing her toothbrush sitting next to his on the sink.

A week before, they had dealt with a case that had been particularly gruesome. Young women had been raped, killed, and dumped. While they were able to identify the killer almost immediately from fingerprints, finding him had been another matter entirely. They had found three victims before the man had been caught, and none of the team had slept during that period.

All of the women had been around Sara's age and living alone, but those had been the only similarities. The victims had been blond, fragile, and generally easy targets because of their need to walk to and from work by way of a local park. That had been a piece of the puzzle that they had struggled with, because the body dumps had been miles north of the place they were abducted from. It had been a tense week, and everyone had been on edge. When it was done, and the suspect in custody after admitting to the crimes, the team had gone out for a grand celebration. But Sara hadn't been celebrating.

Gil had noticed at the restaurant how quiet she had been, but he chalked it up to fatigue and nerves. She didn't drink anything, so she offered to drive them back to his place and he let her. He'd only had a couple of drinks, but there was no reason not to be safe. Then they had gotten ready for bed, he'd gone to his bedroom, and she'd settled in on the couch.

Less than an hour later, he'd heard her. Once, she had told him indirectly that she had nightmares about their cases. He hadn't exactly forgotten it, but neither had he seen one in full force. That night he had, and he wasn't sure which of them had been more frightened. She had smacked him a couple of times as he tried to wake her, but once it was done she had crumbled. Sara Sidle was perhaps the strongest woman he'd ever known – to include his mother – and seeing her like that had torn something apart inside him. He had held her, spoke softly to her, but none of it felt like it was enough. She had held on to him with a death grip; he still had the bruises.

Sara had cried for over an hour before she was able to speak. She had confirmed that the nightmare had been related to the case, but she refused to give him any details. He had brought her a glass of water, cleaned her face with a washcloth, and then he settled in to sit with her. But despite his presence, she didn't sleep. She stared at the ceiling, her body shaking at random intervals, and sniffles coming occasionally.

He had been tired, but more so he had been worried. Finally, he had put his arms around her and taken her to his bed. She hadn't really seemed confused, but she still wasn't oriented enough to argue. He had tucked her beneath the covers, laid down next to her, and had just held her. Sometime in the daylight hours, sleep had finally found them both, and gratefully there had been no more nightmares.

They had been off work the following night, and spent it watching television and playing cards. When it came time to go to bed she had gone to the cupboard for her linens. He had met her there, taken her hands, and had taken her to his bed. Physically, they hadn't done any more than hold one another, but he found that he liked it. She curled into his arms so trustingly, and she was so beautiful and unguarded when she slept. She looked vulnerable, and for just that time he felt like he could actually protect her from the world. It was a childish notion, but it was how he felt.

Those nights had set a pattern, and for the last two nights she had slept with him. Yesterday she had gone home to pay her bills and water her plants, but the rest of her days had been spent with him. She didn't push for more, and didn't pull back from what he offered. She just let him set the pace, which left him feeling inadequate and guilty. He didn't know what she wanted, but he knew that he wanted to give it to her. For the millionth time in his life, he wished that he could pick up on the signals that everyone else seemed to see. He wished that he could figure out what she _really_ wanted from him.

And this afternoon was no different. The sunshine was barely peeking through the dark curtains that he'd purchased when he'd transferred to night shift years before, and he could see the soft expression on her face, the simple relaxation that was never there when she was awake. Sara was full-speed straight-ahead when she was awake, and rarely slowed down long enough to sit, much less relax. Seeing her this way seemed like a gift, and he was taking full advantage of it.

She shifted against him, her knee moving between his legs as she cuddled closer, and his body had its inevitable reaction. He took a few deep breaths, realizing that she didn't have a clue what she was doing while she slept. After a moment he was able to relax again. But Sara wasn't finished. She usually slept with her arms around herself, almost protectively. Today, she had one arm over his body and the other beneath her pillow. This brought them chest to chest, and despite his t-shirt and her flannel pajamas, the sensation was more than comfortable; it was wonderful.

He watched her a moment more, assuring himself that she was well and truly out, before he moved a few strands of hair off her face with one finger. He tucked the hair behind her ear, and leaned down to kiss her gently on the temple. It wasn't supposed to be an arousing action, but under the circumstances he found it was just that. Between her close proximity, the clean smell of her hair, and the softness of her skin he was… lost. He brushed his lips up along her face, placing a kiss on her forehead, and then moved down to gently kiss her lips.

He knew the instant she was awake. The arm which had been slack around him now tugged him in tight, and lips that had been still began to move against his. The movements themselves were nothing more than what they had shared for weeks, but something about the horizontal positioning and the warmth of her sleepy body intensified the sensations. Gil found himself becoming tense, wondering what the hell he had started, and then wondering why he couldn't just turn his damned mind off for just a moment and be human.

"Mmm," she mumbled, nuzzling into his neck. "Nice way to wake up."

He had to smile at that. Sara never had been one to hide what she was feeling, at least not with any real success. He wished that he could be that way, and with her – for the most part – he was. He had learned to talk to her, and she had learned to listen past the words he found to understand the meaning he intended. He had actually become comfortable with touching her, and having her touch him. Honestly, this was the only wall still standing between them, and he wasn't sure why it was there.

She had assured him and reassured him that his appearance wasn't an issue, that she was his regardless of whether or not they ever took this step, and that the choice had to be his. It was almost funny in a sick kind of way. She didn't push because she didn't want to push him away, and he didn't move because he was afraid she would back away. The bottom line in both of them was that they wanted to stay close, and it seemed flat-out stupid that the way he had chosen to keep them close was to keep them apart. So much for higher learning.

He moved his hand from beneath where it had been pillowing his head and slid it around and down beneath her. She shifted to accommodate the motion, and he found himself holding her as close as he was being held. She didn't move away from him, but snuggled in even closer, her head below his chin, and her breath warm against his chest.

When her arm started moving, he didn't think a lot of it. She was probably ready to get up for work, early though it was. But before he could release her, he felt timid fingers at the hem of his t-shirt, and then beneath it, and then traveling steadily upwards. Her eyes were closed, but whether to increase her concentration or to block out his reaction he couldn't be sure. Either way, he sucked in a breath and watched her as she moved one hand up beneath his shirt to caress his chest, to explore territory that he hadn't allowed her before. When her fingertips passed over a single, hard point of sensation he tensed again, and her hand stopped… right… there. She looked up at him, the question in her eyes. Should she stop?

He wished he knew how to answer her. Yes, she should stop because he didn't want this messed up. No, she mustn't stop because he needed it, wanted it. Yes, she should stop because their friendship was too important to be compromised and he didn't want to take even the slightest risk of going back to the days when she couldn't talk to him. No, she couldn't stop, because every single word, and action, and argument, and feeling had led them to this very moment.

As usual, his silence became a misinterpreted answer in itself, and her hand moved down just as her eyes did, disappointment clear in her expression. Oddly, it was that disappointment, that knowledge that she had wanted this too, that decided him. He placed his hand over hers and moved it back up to where it had been, feeling his heart speed up at her touch. Her gaze was surprised, so he gave her what he could manage of a smile and a gentle kiss to her forehead. "All yours," he told her carefully. "Do what… you want."

"What about what you want?" she asked earnestly.

The smile gained some intensity. This was his Sara, always worried about everyone except herself. "What I want would get us arrested," he told her with a wink. "So let's start with you."

Her eyes became impossibly wide as she digested the words, and then she smiled. A single shift brought her arm from beneath her pillow, and he found two hands on his chest, two hands swirling patterns, tickling the most unlikely places, and finally sliding around his back to hold him tightly. He was grateful for that; another few minutes, and any further action on his part would have been academic. Pathetic, he thought to himself. He had often thought that he could come apart just looking at her, but he hadn't realized how close to the truth it was. Looking at her while she touched him with such obvious enjoyment had brought him so close to the edge that he really didn't want to think about it. Instead, he held her tightly and took deep breaths, trying to calm a body that had been denied for far too long.

"Okay?" she asked uncertainly.

"Fine," he said, and took another breath. "Just… remember that I…" He took another breath before pulling back enough to meet her eyes. "I don't want you to be disappointed."

She watched him earnestly before asking, "Does it feel good?"

He didn't have to give her words. He smiled, and her returned smile told him that she understood him perfectly.

"Then I'm not disappointed," she said simply. "This isn't just for me, Gil. Your feelings count, too. If I'm out of line, or if something bothers you, I expect for you to tell me."

"You think you're full of surprises?" he asked with a grin.

She smiled at him then, but the glint in her eye was more mischievous than humorous. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then trailed her tongue down to his lips. She paused there for a moment, kissing him deeply, and then she was off again. With the tip of her tongue, she left a moist trail down his jaw, to his neck, and then around the neckline of his shirt. From there she moved up, stopping at his Adam's apple and sucking gently before raising up to face him. "Surprised?"

"Maybe," he admitted.

She grinned at him. "Can I take the shirt off?"

"Yours or mine?"

She shook her head at the seriousness of the question. He hadn't meant it as a joke; he honestly wasn't sure how she wanted to start this. Were they supposed to strip and get back into bed, or take their clothes off a little at a time? Was he supposed to take of his own, or wait for her to do it? He couldn't remember the finer points of seduction, or even if he'd ever known them. Most of his encounters had been rushed, emotionally uncomfortable, and physically… little more than a release of pressure. Quite frankly, he could do a better job of it himself. Then his train of thought was derailed as she took her weight on one elbow and used her other hand to start unbuttoning her pajama top. Inch by inch, he saw soft skin emerge from flannel folds.

He held his breath. She was… perfect. As she shrugged away the soft material, his fingers itched to touch. She must have sensed it, because she put her hand back beneath his shirt and scratched the center of his chest gently. "Your turn?" she requested.

He gave a nod, and then shifted so that he could reach down and tug off his t-shirt. Dark blue cotton found its way to the floor as he lost all interest in clothing. That same tongue which had been surprising him before was now picking up where it had left off. Across his collar bone, down and around a disk of darker brown skin, and finally ending with a gentle bite just above his navel. When she looked up at him this time, he gave her a look that held less surprise and far more distraction. He had to touch her.

He wanted to ask permission, but was entirely too afraid that she might say no. So he followed her example and slid his hands along her sides, enjoying the texture of soft, feminine skin. When they began their return journey, he caressed the softer skin of her chest, smiling when she gasped a little as he rubbed and played. It was amazing the difference in texture from average skin to this, he thought. He supposed the fascination was in not having it himself, but whatever the reason, he spent a good deal of time at her chest, touching, kissing, and finally sucking on the warmth he found there.

For her part, Sara didn't seem to mind. In fact, if the soft sounds and tiny groans he heard were any indication at all, she was enjoying this as much as he was. So he took his time, leaving no inch of flesh untouched, tickling her with his tongue, then moving on to another location to repeat the treatment. By the time he was back up to her neck, and then her lips, the kiss he received was nearly an attack. She held him to her tightly, kissed him deep and long and more thoroughly than he would have thought possible, and then she pulled away just enough to look at him before kissing him again. He couldn't even imagine what she must have seen in her glance. He was stunned, aroused, and very confused. It weren't as though he was a virgin; he had done this before. But he hadn't done _this_ before. They hadn't even gone below the waist, and already it was all he could do to delay the inevitable release of his body. If she ever really touched him…

Her head was on his shoulder now, her breathing as erratic as his own. "Give me a sec," she requested in between gulping breaths. "I didn't think…"

"Neither did I," he admitted.

A long moment later she eased back in the cradle of his arms and smiled. "You ready?"

He couldn't answer beyond a gulp. She must have taken it as assent though, because she reached down and pushed away both flannel pants and the panties beneath, leaving herself open to his gaze. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful. The only thing clouding the situation was the knowledge that she would expect him to do the same, and there were times when fifteen years seemed to be a lifetime.

He had never really worried about his appearance. He had done his best to remain healthy, but beyond that he was realistic enough to know that bodies did not stay the same as they aged. He wasn't thirty anymore, and he didn't look as though he was. Normally it wasn't something he thought about, but lying next to a beautiful woman the concern couldn't be eliminated. Would she be disappointed? Would she even want…?

His choice in the matter was taken from him as he felt his boxers sliding down, driven by soft and warm hands which were nothing if not determined. Well, if she was this insistent, he couldn't see a reason to fight her. He lifted himself slightly, making her job easier, and then he kicked away the material. When it was done, he closed his eyes and pulled her close to him. One moment, he thought. One moment, and then he would let reality settle in. One moment, and then he would let her see just what she was settling for. But he needed this moment, and he needed to feel her warmth against him, head to toe.

Gratefully, she stayed in his arms far longer than a moment, and when she eased back he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. If he hadn't seen the soft smile, he might have been worried. But that was the smile she saved just for him, and he'd learned to look for it. With a deep breath, he loosened his hold on her and let her look, let her touch. It was the last wall he had, and she was inside. He said a silent prayer that he hadn't made a horrible mistake; he wasn't sure he could stand being torn apart from the inside out.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 

Sara sighed and snuggled herself into the curve of Gil's sleeping body. That was probably going to bug him, she realized, the fact that he'd fallen asleep. But she was appropriately drowsy herself, and more physically satisfied than she could ever remember being. For the ten-thousandth time, she wondered why he'd been so damned worried about disappointing her.

She'd had sex before, both recreationally and with guys she thought she loved before she was old enough to know better. It was all fine and good, but there really wasn't anything to raise the rooftop about. Early on, she had dealt with clumsy and inexperienced kids. It hadn't bothered her, because she'd been one herself. Still, looking back she could see why she had never really understood the big deal. Later, most encounters had been more satisfying, but waking up the next morning had been hollow. Most nights she hadn't stayed around, and if it was at her place she moved to the couch. It wasn't something she could place, but there had been something that hadn't felt right. One man she had even moved in with for a while, and that had been a mess. He'd been sweet, and he had treated her well, but something had always been missing. She had liked him, but she'd never really respected him. Without respect, she hadn't been able to fall in love.

She sure as hell hadn't found the same problem with Grissom. From the first time she'd seen him speak, she had respected his mind and his work. Contrary to what many thought, she hadn't fallen in love with him that day. She had definitely fallen in like, and she had wished that she could work under someone with half as much knowledge and confidence. Further, he'd been one of the first dinner dates she'd gone on where a pass hadn't been made. There had been a certain relief in not having to fend off unwanted advances from a man she really didn't know. Why in hell did most men think that paying for dinner entitled them to the dessert of their choice? Grissom hadn't acted that way though. He had been polite, had walked her to her door afterwards, and… he had shaken her hand. Knowing him now, she saw how very in-character it was, but at the time she'd found it hysterical.

If she were to think back, she decided that she'd probably fallen in love with him a few weeks after they'd started working together in Vegas. It had been a nasty case, and as usual she had taken the assaults against women to heart. After a particularly difficult night when they had found two bodies and essentially no evidence, she had lost it. Angry at the world in general and men in particular, she had started on a screaming rant that had sent Nick running and had even made Warrick back down. Grissom hadn't followed suit. As she had stomped off to leave, he had cornered her at the Tahoe, telling her that she was in no shape to drive. The advice hadn't gone over well.

"You can't tell me what to do!" she had screamed.

"I can and I will," he corrected. "The Tahoe is department property, and it's not going anywhere with a screaming woman behind the wheel."

"So I'll stop screaming," she had said, loudly but with at least the illusion of control.

"Not good enough."

She closed her eyes and attempted to compose herself. "I'm okay, Grissom. I just need to get out of here. I just need to get away from it."

"Fine," he had offered. "Give me your keys, and you can wait here until we're ready to go. You don't have to help with the processing; we have it covered."

Looking around the darkened field, she had felt the tears welling in her eyes and had willed him to just leave. She scrambled for her keys, held them out, and muttered a quick, "Fine."

"Sara?"

She had turned to get in the Tahoe, albeit the passenger side rather than the driver's, and she didn't turn back around. She couldn't. "What?"

"Look at me."

She shook her head, not wanting him to see the weakness. She wanted him to be proud of her, and she knew that this wouldn't impress him. No emotion. That was the rule, and she was breaking it big-time.

"Sara?"

She resisted as he stepped sideways and turned her around. Just as he cornered her in the opened door of the SUV, the first tear began its path down her cheek. She couldn't stop it. She just couldn't take any more tonight. She needed food, and sleep, and time to regain her perspective. She would be a basket case until she got those things, and she knew it.

She waited for the lecture that she knew was coming. How many times had he told her that she could feel for the victims but she mustn't feel with them? How many times had he chastised her for getting too close? How many times had he clinically explained that a level of detachment was essential to survive in their line of work? How many times had she heard it all before?

But the lecture didn't come. What did come were two warm arms, one pulling her into the strength of his chest and the other holding her head to his shoulder. He didn't speak at all, but the action itself was enough to break loose the pure frustration inside her. She had cried a multitude of angry tears, pounding fists against his chest, and then into his back as her arms had gone around him in desperation. And somewhere in the tears and the gentle acceptance – not that she was right, but that this was who she was – she had fallen head over heels for Gil Grissom. He might not express emotion, but he seemed to understand it. Later he would make her wonder about that fact, but for that one moment she had just been grateful for a shoulder to cry on and someone strong enough to hold her up when her legs gave out.

When her crying had stopped, he coaxed her into the Tahoe and handed her the box of Kleenex that was kept in the glove compartment. He hadn't said a word about what had happened, either that night or afterwards, and nobody else had brought it up so she was inclined to believe that he hadn't spread the word of her breakdown around. He had been a perfect gentleman. The night hadn't stopped his occasional lecture on emotional involvement, but he had known that she couldn't handle it that one time, and if he hadn't approved, at least he hadn't condemned.

Sara stroked her fingers through brown curls and around the curve of one ear. She had been falling in love for four years, and now she was in as deep as it was possible to be. She knew that he was afraid, and she knew that only time could relieve the fears he must have. But truly, she didn't hold any of it against him. With age, he had gained maturity and understanding. With his hearing loss, he had learned the value of communication and empathy for the handicapped. And as for what anyone thought about her "sleeping her way to the top", she was more than willing to transfer to a different shift and a position lateral to what she held now. She preferred that it not be under Eckley, but she would do what she had to in order to keep them out of trouble. She wasn't going to let anything destroy the first thing that had felt right to her in a very long time.

Eyelids fluttered, and Sara found herself staring into deep blue depths. He smiled sleepily, closed his eyes, and pulled her closer to him for a moment. When she went willingly, his eyes flew open and he looked at her as though she had appeared out of thin air.

"You're here," he said in a confused voice.

"Where am I supposed to be?" she asked him, slightly uncertain. She wasn't known for success with the "morning after", and the fact that it was late afternoon wasn't likely to change that.

"Here," he said, the confusion still present. Then, after looking at her a moment more, he reached up to cradle her face in his palm. Without thinking, she turned her face and kissed his hand before returning to her previous position. "You're real," he said with wonder.

"Last time I checked," she said with raised eyebrows.

He shook his head at that. "I thought it was another dream," he told her softly.

She had to smile at that. "You dream about me?" she asked softly.

He didn't say a word, but his blush told her a lot.

She was more flattered than she would ever admit, and she kissed his hand once more. "I hate to say it, but we have work in two hours," she told him with regret. "I was going to wake you in about half an hour to get ready."

He sighed, threading strong fingers through her hair and rubbing her scalp gently. "Work," he said morosely.

"Yeah," she said with a grin. "That thing you live for?"

"I did," he admitted. "Everyone needs a purpose, otherwise they don't have a reason to get up in the morning."

"Justice for all," she said softly. "Not a bad purpose."

"Some days," he told her. "And other days it's… brown eyes and the hope that I might get a smile out of you. Or it's planning something I think you'll like, and wondering how far off I really am. And sometimes, it's…"

"What?"

"Sometimes it's hoping that I'll get to hear you sing," he said quietly, his cheeks turning a little pink.

She was confused at that. "You have a thing for tone-deaf eighties tunes?" she asked.

He shook his head, and pulled her close for a kiss. She went willingly, tasting him briefly before he pulled back to look at her again. She didn't think she'd ever seen such a soft expression on his face before. "When you first came to Vegas," he explained, "You sang. It wasn't a big deal or anything. Usually it told me that you were so caught up in what you were doing that you should really be left alone. It also told me that you were, I don't know… happy? Well, not unhappy in any case. Maybe content is a better word. It told me that things were okay for you, that the case was going well, and that you had… some kind of hope." He shook his head with a self-depreciative smile. "That sounds really stupid, doesn't it?"

"No comment," she told him with a blush of her own. She'd had no clue that he could tell so much from some off-key humming that she wasn't even conscious of."

"Do you know that you stopped singing?" he asked her, brushing her hair out of her face to tuck it behind an ear. She was coming to like the familiar gesture, especially when his fingers lingered there and brushed along her face, her jaw, her neck.

"I didn't really notice when I was doing it," she admitted. "So I never thought about stopping."

"You did," he told her seriously. "And then, just a couple of months ago, I heard you humming in the lab. I had to backtrack to make sure I hadn't imagined it, but there you were, shuffling slides under a microscope and humming "If". I didn't even realize you were old enough to know that song."

She gave him a gentle laugh. "Actually, it's one of my favorites. I used to love the Hardy Boy's Mysteries, and in one of the episodes they played that song a couple of times. I got hooked; bored my family with it for more than a year and wore the record out."

"You have the most incredible memory," he said almost reverently.

She shrugged at that, unable to take credit for something she'd been born with. "I see words," she said simply. "And they just… stay there. I can tell you that the Hardy Boy's episode was called Last Kiss of Summer, and the character they killed off was Jamie, and probably quote half the dialogue."

"And that was from how many years ago?"

She tilted her head, remembering. "Thirty?" she said thoughtfully. "Maybe twenty-five. But that's the exception. It made an impression, so it stuck with me. I can also quote about half of the lecture you gave at Berkley, and most of the discussion we had over dinner. I also remember cases; the ones we did really well on, and the ones that we blew. The cases in between don't make the same impression, but the things that stand out just… do."

"An amazing mind," he told her, brushing his fingers through her hair.

She smiled at that. "This, from you? You know more than… I ever will."

"I'm older than you are," he reminded her.

She shrugged and gave him a smile just shy of a leer. "Doesn't seem to slow you down much," she commented in her most off-handed voice.

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did she caught a quick glimpse of an ear-to-ear smile before she found herself beneath a very playful Gil Grissom. He'd found all her ticklish spots earlier, and his memory was apparently as good as hers, at least for some things. Within a few seconds, he had her giggling and writhing, and feeling more alive than she had felt in ages. When he finally stopped, it was to kiss her deeply, gently, and oh so very thoroughly.

"Work," he finally said as he raised his head. The word had been almost a sigh.

"Work," she agreed.

They each began shifting in the bed, searching for discarded clothing and sneaking playful glances at one another as they did so. She couldn't miss the almost shy look that remained in his eyes, even after she had gone over virtually every inch of his body with nothing but praise. So when he had his clothes and was tossing them in the hamper, she eased up behind him and wrapped her arms around his body, pressing herself against him. His gasp was audible, and she clearly felt the almost involuntary movement that pressed him back against her. She ran her hands up his chest, enjoying the texture of him and snuggling into his back.

"I don't wanna go," she admitted as she kissed the center of his back, lingering to make tiny circles with her tongue and enjoying the salty flavor of him.

He was quiet for a long moment, and then he turned around to face her. "You can come back in the morning," he said softly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "I mean, if you want…"

She gave a playful smack to the center of his chest and then put her arms around him in a hug. When he returned the action, she lowered her hands enough to find some very interesting territory and smooth her hands over that as well. She had to give him credit for not jumping, but she accomplished what she'd wanted. His eyes were on hers.

"I want," she told him in a very certain voice.

And at that he smiled, and she knew that she had told him what he needed to hear.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue 

Gil Grissom tossed the last file into his out-basket, and then leaned back to remove his glasses. Of all the tasks he had to perform, he hated paperwork the most. Lately, he had been doing more of it though. He had been meeting deadlines. He had been leaving work at the end of his shift. It was only a matter of time until someone noticed the aberrant behavior, but he couldn't find it in him to care. If his work was finished, he got to be at home with Sara. It was as simple, and as complicated, as that.

Unfortunately, managing the never-ending paperwork entailed giving assignments to the others, and not going to as many crime scenes as he would have liked. For years he had done both, but he couldn't do that now and still have time with Sara. And she was making compromises as well, working more cooperatively with others and acting less brittle. She still wasn't exactly the same vivacious woman who had shown up years before to watch him throw mannequins off a building, but she was closer than she'd ever been since. He held an obscene amount of pride that he could hold any responsibility for that, and if he was also responsible for her lack of happiness in the interim, then he tried not to dwell on it. Sara had told him that they couldn't change the past; they could only learn from it. Gil Grissom was learning.

With his work finished, and the clock on the wall telling him that he had nearly thirty minutes until shift ended, he decided to treat himself to some hot coffee and perhaps an opportunity to take a look at what his CSIs were doing while he wasn't standing over their shoulders.

He found Greg hunched over a microscope with music blaring and he had to smile; some things never changed. At the very least the music did seem to improve his productivity, even if it aggravated those around him. Perhaps for Christmas he'd buy the man an mp3 player; that way they could all relax and let him have his heavy metal within the privacy of his own headphones. Gil watched a moment more, unable to hold back a smile as Greg's bottom stuck up in the air and bounced to and fro to the music. If the boy only knew how ridiculous he looked…

Warrick and Catherine were to be found only a few rooms down. They were engaged in a heated argument over whether the fibers they had found were relevant to the case or not. Warrick insisted yes; Catherine demanded no. If they didn't come to a conclusion before coming to blows, then he'd step in, but one of the best supervisory techniques was to just let his people hammer things out on their own. Both of them were intelligent and competent, and neither inclined to excessive violence. There was no need to micromanage the situation, even if Warrick was right. Everything was always relevant to a case until it was solved, and only then could things be ruled out as unimportant.

After getting his cup of coffee from the break room – the empty break room – he decided to admit to himself what he was really up to. He wanted to find Sara. He wasn't going to molest her in a hallway, but he wanted to see her. He just wanted a smile. There were times he still didn't believe that his life was more than a misty dream, and a single smile or touch from her could remind him that – as cliché as it sounded – dreams did come true.

She wasn't in the autopsy room, and he didn't find her either at trace or in the interrogation area. He widened his search area, trying to remember the details of the case he'd put her on. Damn, he'd become so rapped up in paperwork that he was losing sight of where his people were; that wasn't good.

The auto yard; now he remembered. They had found an abandoned vehicle near to the DB that he had assigned her and she was having it hauled in for a thorough investigation because they suspected the cause of death was hit and run. If he knew her, she'd be in coveralls with grease everywhere and every piece of that car spread across the room even though there wasn't a man in sight to help her with the heavy lifting.

He slipped out the back of the main lab building, and then walked towards the yard. He crossed an area where he had first known that Sara cared for him as more than an instructor or boss, where they had watched a pig decompose over hot cocoa and warm blankets. She hadn't eaten meat since. She had done that for him, so he wouldn't be alone in the cold. He had done it for her, because the case had meant so much. That had been the moment Gil realized that she was more than a colleague; she was more than a friend. He only wished now that he hadn't spent so damned many years fighting what was inevitable.

Rounding the corner of the garage area, Gil stopped dead in his tracks. He heard her voice, and it was more than a hum. Each word was clear and bright, and she was a hell of a long way from tone deaf. In fact, her alto was fairly precise, and the song tugged at his heart. He stood there in silence, listening as she sang the last verse, only stepping into the garage as he heard the last few lines.

"_We'll just go on burning bright_," she sang. "_Somewhere in the night_."

He watched as her head jerked around at his gentle applause, and then he watched her blush. She rolled herself out from under the car and sat up, and her cheeks were still pink as she stared at him. "Sorry," he told her. "Couldn't resist."

"You could warn a girl," she complained, but the words were good-natured in their tone.

"Where's the fun in that?" he asked.

"Right." Sara brushed her hair out of her way with greasy hands, leaving the smudges that he knew she would have. He wondered why it was so much more endearing than perfectly applied makeup or fashionably exact clothing.

"Shift is over in twenty," he told her. "You going to be off on time?"

She looked back at the car with a frown, and then back at him. "Honestly, I don't think so. I found some traces of blood on the undercarriage, and I need to get some more samples done and into trace before I leave. Then there's the forms and the follow-up…" She shook her head with clear regret. "I'm sorry, Griss."

His head tilted sideways as he watched her, and then he moved down to take a look at the undercarriage that was visible on the lifted car. He handed Sara his coffee, catching the quick grin she gave him as she took a sip. "Did you see that there's some… something up under that fitting."

She rolled herself back under and passed back his coffee. "It looks like tissue," she said with clear excitement in her voice. "Hey, Griss, get me that jar."

He didn't mind that it was an order, even though he was her boss. He set down the coffee and reached for her kit, grabbing the tweezers and storage jar that she would need. Then he disregarded the polo shirt and slacks he was wearing to slide in beneath the car and hold things in place for her and make her job a little easier.

It was almost forty-five minutes later when they finished with the evidence collection and prepared to leave the garage. She packed up her kit, he held the evidence bags, and they took the short walk back to the lab. Along the way he heard her humming, and he couldn't resist joining in.

"_Music to magic to end, I'll play you over and over again_," she sang quietly.

"_Loving so warm, moving so right_," he sang softly at her ear.

"_Closing our eyes and feeling alive_."

They completed the song together, as they had come to do most things. "_We'll just go on burning bright. Somewhere in the night_."

fin

Author's Note:

This wasn't intended to be a songfic, but for some reason the words just seemed to fit… it just did. And I really do miss hearing Jorja Fox sing on the show… she had a decent voice.

FYI – Lyrics to Somewhere in the Night by Barry Manilow

Time, you found time enough to love

And I found love enough to hold you

So tonight I'll stir the fire you feel inside

Until the flames of love enfold you

Layin' beside you lost in the feeling

So glad you opened my door, come with me

Somewhere in the night we will know

Everything lovers can know

You're my song, music too magic to end

I'll play you over and over again

Lovin' so warm, movin' so right

Closin' our eyes and feelin' alive

We'll just go on burnin' bright

Somewhere in the night

You'll sleep when the mornin' comes

And I'll lie and watch you sleepin'

And you'll smile when you dream about the night

Like it's a secret you've been keepin'

Layin' beside you lost in the feeling

So glad you opened my door

You're my song, music too magic to end

I'll play you over and over again

Lovin' so warm, movin' so right

Closin' our eyes and feelin' alive

We'll just go on burnin' bright

Somewhere in the night


End file.
